Le Bon Temps Roule
by Nevermore
Summary: Against the backdrop of a Sabbat siege in New Orleans, young kindred try to make sense of their lives and relationships. Let the good times roll....... (Complete)
1. Le Bon Temps Roule, Prologue

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

The character of Matt Reimer sprang from the mind of Eric Bowmaster.

K.T. Corben, Erica Blackwell, and Michelle Marlowe are the products of Icy Mike Molson's overactive imagination. For more insight into his disturbed mind, check out his stories here on

Marcus Dietrich, a character that certainly possesses an abundance of passion and plucky spirit, was created within the rather disturbed mind of Dwayne Gamble.

Siras Telemon is the dream-child of (a most likely drunken) Steve Wakefield.

All of the other characters, as well as the story, are mine.

One last comment of thanks is required for Icy Mike and Drahcir, both of whom did an admirable (and supremely patient) job of reading through this story and making comments where needed.

**Author's Note:** While this is a stand-alone story, it might help those that are truly interested in getting to know certain characters better to first read my five San Francisco stories, and/or stories by Icy Mike Molson which feature K.T. Corben and/or Johnny Yashida (such as his wonderful stories _Enemies Disguised as Enemies _and _Sleight of Hands_). As I said, this is stand-alone, so reading all that other stuff isn't necessary. It might be interesting to you, though, if you also like what you find here.

**Le Bon Temps Roule**

by

**Nevermore**

**Prologue**

"So, you Southpaw?" the girl asked as she walked over toward the table. The man matched the description that she had been given, but she felt it would be best to confirm his identity before beginning to discuss business.

"That's right," the man replied. He looked the girl over, trying to figure out who she was. He knew that he was to meet with someone, but he had been instructed that the other party would be male. "Who the hell are you?"

"Name's Marlowe," the woman replied. She analyzed the man, noting each of his features, examining him as thoroughly as she had been taught. Southpaw was sitting in a corner booth of the diner, giving him an opportunity to watch everyone that came and went_. That could be the sign of someone who has something to be concerned about._ Then there were his clothes. He wore a custom-tailored black jacket over a black, collarless dress shirt. From her angle she could see his right leg, and the charcoal gray slacks that he wore. _Yep,_ she said to herself, _that stuff is all Armani._ She cast a quick glance at his right foot and immediately recognized the shoes as Gucci. As her eyes darted back from the floor to meet his gaze, she passed, for the briefest of moments, over his right wrist, noting the gold Rolex. Finally, the thin scent of Drakar wafted in the air, completing the image – to outward appearances the man seemed like any other disaffected member of Generation X. To her, he was someone who was pretending to be something other than he was.

The man had obviously gone to great lengths to appear as if he was dressed casually, like any other patron at the Colonnade Diner at two in the morning. Marlowe knew better. The man's clothes alone had cost, altogether, more than two thousand dollars. That was without even counting the Rolex. She wondered how Southpaw would react if she got close, and decided to answer her own question by jumping into the seat across from him, looking him over with a devilish grin on her face.

"I don't know who you are, or how you know my name, but you had best run along, little girl," the man said, his voice containing a slightly threatening tone. Marlowe only smiled more broadly in return. She looked him over again, trying to etch his visage into her memory forever. It was both easy and difficult to do, a product of his possessing no conspicuously distinct features. Southpaw had short brown hair, a light complexion, and brown eyes. His features were rounded but not soft, and he had a very average build. In all, he was the type of man whose appearance was, in a word, common. He would blend into a crowd perfectly. Were it not for his expensive clothes, there would be nothing about him that would attract attention. _And now me,_ Marlowe pointed out to herself, knowing that her presence in the booth would be more than enough to attract a few looks toward the lone man.

She was, in some ways, very much like him in her appearance. Marlowe was far younger, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and was a shade over five feet tall. She had a thin, athletic figure, curly, black, shoulder-length hair, and green eyes. Physically, she was attractive but not striking. As with Southpaw, were it not for her taste in clothes she would blend into almost any crowd. The way she was dressed, however, prevented her from traveling in most respectable circles. She wore a tight pair of black leather pants that accentuated every feminine curve, and a thin, white, mostly see-through button-down shirt was partly undone, plainly allowing a view of the lacy black bra that she wore underneath. A silver ankh hung from a thin necklace around her neck, and her black makeup seemed to be an advertisement for the Goth counter-culture.

Marlowe knew all too well that if no one had noticed the man sitting across from her before, they certainly would now. _They probably think I'm a drug dealer, and he's a young stockbroker looking to spend some of his surplus cash,_ she thought gleefully. It always gave the girl a thrill to imagine that she was a more nefarious character than she actually was.

"I know who you're here to see," Marlowe said after a few moments of thought. "He's elsewhere, waiting to make certain you're alone."

"What are you, his secretary?" Southpaw asked.

"Executive assistant," Marlowe returned without hesitation, her grin not fading in the least.

"Well then can you tell me why I had to come to Staten Island, of all places, for this meeting?"

"Mr. Yashida feels safe here," Marlowe replied. She knew it was a lie, but she wanted to see Southpaw's reaction. The entire purpose behind the risky meeting in Staten Island was to see how serious Southpaw and his superiors were. So far, they had passed the test with flying colors.

"Safe?" Southpaw asked, his surprise evident. "The Sabbat holds Manhattan, just a stone's throw from here. It's their capital in the New World. Do you have any idea how high ranking an official I am?"

"High ranking enough to be sent to Staten Island, which is just a stone's throw from the Sabbat's capital in the New World," a new voice replied. Southpaw looked up and set his gaze on a young punk sitting at a table about ten feet away. "Seems you're probably as expendable as any other errand boy we've ever met."

Marlowe saw Southpaw's left hand go for a gun, and pulled back the hammer on the Colt she had hidden under the table. _Obviously not a high enough ranking official to know better than to let me get my hands out of view,_ she thought wryly. Southpaw heard the faint click and recognized it immediately. His sudden movement stopped abruptly.

"A setup?" he asked aggressively. "You'll be dead before the month is out, you Sabbat shits."

"Despite my appearance, I am not Sabbat," the punk at the other table replied. Southpaw looked the teen over quickly. The black, chain-bedecked boots, the ripped blue jeans, black t-shirt covered by a red flannel shirt and a black trenchcoat, and blue-dyed hair all spoke to him definitely being a part of the young, violent vampire sect known as the Sabbat. Southpaw was surprised he had not noticed a man with such an appearance getting within a hundred feet. "My name is Johnny Yashida," the half-Asian punk added. "I'm here to meet with you. Michelle was simply making certain that you'd come alone and that you were indeed who you said you were."

"Great, so now what?" Southpaw asked.

"Now we go out to my car and get down to business," Yashida replied. "Bring the car around," he said in a low voice. He then stood and walked toward the exit, followed closely by Southpaw, with Michelle bringing up the rear. "I do hope you don't mind carrying on our meeting while in transit, but as you pointed out, this is not exactly the safest place for people like us." _People like us,_ Yashida thought with a smile. _Vampires like us, actually. Members of the Camarilla, the sect that is directly opposed by the Sabbat. If the Sabbat finds us we'll be wishing we'd run into the morning sun instead._

The three vampires had not been outside the diner for more than five seconds when a black Ford Expedition pulled up. Johnny and Michelle climbed in immediately, both getting into the back seat as Johnny gestured for Southpaw to get into the front, riding shotgun directly in front of Michelle. Southpaw did as he was instructed, and the vehicle was moving immediately.

"Who are you?" Southpaw asked the driver. The large man ignored the question, seeming to concentrate solely on the task that he had been assigned.

"His name is completely irrelevant," Yashida said. "The only thing that matters is our business. Now please do me a favor and keep facing forward. Any sudden movements and Michelle is going to pour phosphorous rounds into your back, understand?"

"Completely," Southpaw replied.

"Good. I've been informed that your superiors are having a problem," Yashida began. "A friend of mine is in New Orleans and he says the prince is looking for outside help."

"Mercenaries," Southpaw clarified. "No friendships, no favors. The prince has money, and he's willing to pay it for services rendered. We want people that can come in, do the job, and then leave."

"The way I heard it, you want more than simple mercenaries," Yashida replied. "I was under the impression that certain people I represent were specifically requested."

"The Telemon clan," Southpaw said evenly. "Yes. There are rumors that the Telemon have specialized in resisting Sabbat sieges. They say that the Telemon are just as brutal as the Sabbat, but more efficient; that they're able to wipe out entire packs so discretely that they never even threaten the Masquerade."

"Perhaps," Yashida replied. _Where the hell did this guy hear these tall tales?_ Johnny wondered. _Okay, true, the Telemon are worlds more efficient than the Sabbat, but then again, so is the average fourth-grade public school class. Even the ones in New York. The Sabbat usually succeeds in its goal of capturing a targeted city, but only after years of scouting and countless deaths of newly embraced shock troops. As for the Telemon being brutal, no way. We're perhaps overly destructive from time to time, but I wouldn't call us brutal. Anyway, someone has been giving us good press. Either that, or this clown was specifically instructed to kiss my ass._ "So what exactly are your superiors offering?"

"What are you asking?" Southpaw countered.

"I need to know the specifics," Yashida explained. "Rates vary depending on the situation, how many people are required, and for how long. The general starting cost is $10,000 per day, per man. It goes up from there."

"You're joking," Southpaw replied. He slowly turned to face the small Japanese man in the back seat, making certain he did not make any sudden movements, and saw immediately that Yashida was completely serious.

"Before we even address cost, though, there are some things that need to be discussed," Johnny added. "There are guidelines that the Telemon – and their employers – are required to follow. You are expected to abide by any regulations that are set forth. Fraud in our dealings can have some serious repercussions."

"What are your requests?" Southpaw asked, once again finding his composure and assuming the role he had been sent to fill.

"The Telemon only work for princes," Johnny replied. "They won't go into a prince's city and fight unless they're sure that it's the prince himself that has summoned them. That means your story will be checked very thoroughly.

"Second, the Telemon will not take part in any internal wars. If the employer somehow loses, it could put them in a bad situation. When a new guy takes over, the Telemon don't want to be remembered as hired guns who had opposed him. That's bad for business. Besides, politics is a game for the older clans. Our only interest is in wiping out the external threats that the Sabbat usually poses.

"Third, the Telemon supply their own weapons and ammunition, which is one of the reasons that their prices are so high. However, they expect the prince to supply them with any means of transportation that they request. They need a Humvee, they get it. They need a Porsche, they get it. No questions asked."

"I don't think any of that should be a problem," Southpaw said dubiously.

"The final provision may be," Johnny answered. "I need to bring this up now, so that there are no problems later. Once hired, the Telemon cannot be controlled. The business of the Telemon is war, and they won't suffer the input of an unindoctrinated prince. They can, of course, be fired at the discretion of the prince, but they won't follow any specific orders. If he has certain goals that he wants achieved, they'll consider such proposals. But they won't allow anyone to tell them how to go about achieving those specific goals. I understand that this could make for an uncomfortable situation. The Telemon have no problem with a prince who wishes to control everything in his city; management style is not their concern. If that's how your prince is, though, he should hire other soldiers. I have an extensive list of suitable candidates that I would be happy to share with you."

"Is that it?" Southpaw asked. He could only imagine how his superiors would react to such a demand. _Free reign within the city?_ It was so ludicrous he could hardly believe that the small emissary had had the nerve to ask.

"That's it for now," Yashida replied. "I'll be in touch."

Southpaw looked out the windshield and realized that they had arrived back in front of the diner. He stepped out and made his way to his car quickly. He had a flight out of Newark in an hour, and knew that he would have to hurry if he were to make it. His superiors would be pleased. He had succeeded in contacting the mercenaries that his sire, his prince, had wanted to employ. Now the question was whether the prince would accept the Telemon terms.

As the messenger left, Michelle Marlowe turned to her friend in the back seat. "So what now?"

"I'm guessing I should get a team ready to go to New Orleans," Johnny replied. "It's been awhile since we visited. It should be a nice change."

"So you think Siras will accept the contract?" the man in front asked.

"We need the money, Mason," Johnny answered. "Now that Matt is gone and the cash from his arms deals has dried up, we need to start hiring out as mercenaries again. We also get the chance to make some contacts, as well as get combat experience and some possible new recruits. Remember it's not all about filling the clan's coffers."

"What do you need us to do?" Mason asked. Johnny knew that the question referred to Mason and his blood sister, Uiko, who had been driving along behind them during the meeting, adding another layer of security. Mason and Uiko had been embraced at nearly the same time, almost two years earlier. Both were still learning the ways of the vampire world, and neither had as yet been "released." Until the time they were presented to a prince and made answerable for their own actions, they would be Johnny's responsibility. Not that the diminutive Asian minded. He always had a fondness for his childer and enjoyed the opportunity to pass on some of what he had learned. Having two new wards helped ease the pain after the death of Matt, whom everyone in the clan knew had been Johnny's favorite.

"You and Uiko go to New Orleans with Michelle," Johnny instructed. He knew his friend would be capable of watching over the young vampires' behavior, while at the same time they would keep her safe and out of trouble with the mortal authorities. "You and Uiko try to fall back in with Damage Incorporated," Johnny instructed Michelle, referring to an anarch gang centered in Uptown. Both he and Michelle had spent some time among the anarchs during their last vacation in New Orleans, and Johnny knew the best way to get right back into the middle of things was to run with the anarchs. "Convince them that you're Caitiff, and see if they let you hang around." Johnny knew the plan would work. Damage Incorporated was always under fire from the prince of New Orleans, as they were involved in several illegal activities that seemed to invite violence. That violence endangered the Masquerade, the all-important vampire rule of discretion around the humans. By saying they were Caitiff, or clanless, Michelle and Uiko would be accepted as young vampires without ties to the oppressive elders. Being in an anarch gang would give them the chance to gather information without being too obvious; and more importantly, it would let them see how greatly the Sabbat had infiltrated the anarchs, a step that was generally considered an important pre-cursor to a siege. "Mason, you'll lay low for the time being. You'll be our little secret until we need you."

"So where are you planning on going?" Michelle asked.

"I have to see my sire," Johnny replied, referring to Siras Telemon, the progenitor of the Telemon clan. "I should tell him about the deal and see if he'll let me commandeer a few of his people for the job."

"Who are you planning on?" Mason asked.

"I would love to take Marcus," Johnny answered, referring to his brother, a mountain of a man that put fear into the hearts of many of the clan's enemies, "but there's no way in hell Siras would ever let him get too far away for very long. I think I'll ask for McLachlan. Maybe Brett, too."

Johnny then sat back and thought over the prospect of getting into another fight. He had not seen battle since the Telemon, along with virtually every other vampire, had been driven out of San Francisco. It was time he got back to doing what his clan did best.

_To be continued……………………………………_


	2. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 1

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

**-----------------------------------------------------------**

CHAPTER 1

**I**

"So what exactly do we know about the prince of New Orleans?" Siras Telemon asked, wanting to get to the meat of the issue as quickly as possible. It was his way. At times, Johnny hated the fact that his sire was all business, with little time for stopping to smell the roses. That was to be expected, though. Siras had grown into manhood during the Great Depression. He had learned all too well the value of hard work, and at times it was obvious that Siras felt Yashida took life a little too lightly. After working hard on a daily basis for almost a decade just to put food in his mouth, Siras was then shipped off to Europe to fight in World War II. Of course, that had been well before the United States had ever entered the war.

Siras had seen the events unfold slowly and had taken interest long before anyone outside of the U.S. government had. He had family in Germany, and he paid attention to Hitler's rise to power. He had been one of the few not to count Hitler out when he had been arrested for taking part in a revolutionary movement. Siras Telemon had known that the mysterious forces that guide history would not allow such a charismatic and utterly maniacal man to fade into the background, not when he could instead be given control of a nation with as much potential as Germany had. Siras Telemon had seen it all coming and had enlisted when Germany annexed the Rhineland. He had felt that war was inevitable, and he figured that if was in the Army before the shooting started, he would be more likely to work into an officer's position. His plan had worked, and even sooner than had been expected.

As the U.S. prepared for a war it knew all too well was coming, it sent various military officers to England; there they were able to study German technology and tactics, preparing for American entry into the war. Siras had been sent over as a mechanic, assigned to a unit examining pieces of destroyed German armor units that had been taken from the battlefields. While off-duty, he had been playing a game of chess when a middle-aged man came over and watched. The game was short. Siras had always been good at strategy games in general, and chess in particular. After a few brief words, Siras discovered that he had been speaking with General Omar Bradley. The general took Siras into his staff, an assignment that lasted only three weeks. Then Siras was sent back to the United States to enter OCS. By the time he returned to Europe, war had broken out and General Bradley was serving with Patton. Siras was kept away from battle and assisted in the planning of the invasion of Normandy Beach. He stayed in France until the Germans were driven out. By that time he was a Captain, but rather than get his own command, Siras was still kept away from the field and used as a strategist. He heard the whispers of his fellow officers. They all either looked down on him for not having gone to West Point, or else lamented the fact that he had missed his true calling and had been deprived of the chance to fully achieve his potential (which would, of course, have been at West Point).

Johnny had always thought it strange that his sire had never been pressed into service as a spy. Siras spoke fluent German, with a hint of an Austrian accent. He was tall, well built, and had blonde hair and blue eyes. Such a man would never have had his loyalty questioned in Hitler's Germany. Indeed, Siras seemed in many ways to be the Aryan Nation poster child, an excellent specimen of the master race. _Lucky for us he was on our side,_ Johnny thought.

As is common in this world, Siras' potential had not been long overlooked even after the war. While humans were temporarily at peace, there were others that were still fighting. Siras had returned to Chicago, his hometown, where he was promptly snatched up and embraced, made an enforcer for his sire. _His sire, now there was a piece of work._

"Johnny?" Siras asked, knocking his childe from his reverie. "Would you please pay attention? I don't have time for you to sit there and calculate spreads in this week's football games. I need your input."

"Sorry, sir," Johnny replied formally, ignoring the slight insult. "What was the question?"

"What do we know about the prince of New Orleans?" Siras asked again. The head of the clan glanced over to Johnny's brother, Marcus, and rolled his eyes slightly.

"I'm not sure," Johnny replied. "I was in New Orleans for awhile, but I never saw the prince. No one sees him. All you ever see is his childe, Ash. Gregory Ash."

"With a name like that he's got to be Ventrue," Marcus commented.

"You guessed it," Johnny answered. "Story goes that about fifty years ago a Toreador came into the city, looking to reclaim it for his clan. As you would expect, the Toreador have spent more time in control of New Orleans than any other clan has. The prince, a Ventrue named Bryan Fleming, another great Ventrue name, fought off the attempted coup. Ever since then, it seems that Fleming has Ash go out into public and do all the dirty work, while he controls everything himself from behind the scenes, staying safe. Technically, I guess Ash is the seneschal, but he's actually referred to as the Regent."

"You said that's the story," Siras pointed out. "Your tone indicates you think there's actually more to it than that."

"There are rumors," Johnny said. "Some say that Fleming was destroyed in the coup, and that Ash simply used the opportunity to seize control for himself. An alternate version says that Fleming survived, but barely, and that Ash simply finished the job so that he could gain freedom from his sire, as well as take all of the power his sire had possessed." Johnny looked over toward Marcus briefly, and knew that his brother shared the same thought, a reference to Siras' older days. "Others say that Fleming left the city, and that while he still exercises authority, he does it from so far away that he might as well not be considered," Johnny continued. "The story I like best, though – and keep in mind that this one is so widely accepted as being the truth that it's probably dead on – is that Fleming survived, but was injured to the point that he was driven into torpor. Now Ash is simply holding the city until his sire wakes up. That makes the most sense."

"Why?" Marcus asked.

"Because eventually someone is going to call Ash on his rule of the city," Siras said, answering for Yashida. "If there's a body somewhere, he'll be able to back up his claim better. I doubt Fleming is dead, and I really doubt that he dares rule a city from outside its borders. No one would be that crazy, no matter how paranoid he was. If the resident vampires ever got wind that the prince was an absentee ruler, the city would descend into chaos. There would be no control."

"It's not far from chaos right now," Johnny responded. "The city is linked with the occult almost everywhere you go. You mention cities and vampires in the same sentence, and most humans in the New World will think of New Orleans. Mention voodoo or demon worship, and you get the same result. Sometimes I think that New Orleans is the Goth capital of the world. You have some real fucked up people there. Then consider the human society. The poverty and crime rates are so high that the city is almost tearing itself apart. It's crazy. I think New Orleans is the perfect place for a Sabbat siege. In fact, I'm shocked they haven't taken it yet."

"Seems you would be right," Siras concurred. "An absent, perhaps dead, prince, with his childe acting as Regent. A high crime rate. A large anarch population that keeps a high enough profile to give the city a reputation for vampirism. Seems to me like it adds up to a siege."

"So we going?" Johnny asked.

"Are we sure that it's really the prince that's calling us in?" Siras questioned in reply.

"I have some friends down there looking into it right now," Johnny answered. "I also checked around about the Southpaw guy at the meeting. The name and face were legit. Of course, it's always a question as to whether or not that was really Southpaw or just someone pretending to be him, but he seemed to be on the level. Everything I've heard and seen so far leads me to believe this is a legitimate offer of employment. I'll probably know for sure within a couple of days. I think we have enough to at least assemble a team. You might want to hold them back until we know for sure."

"Okay," Siras replied. "Go down there and snoop around for a few days, maybe arrange a meeting with the prince. I'll get things set up here. Take that new ghoul of yours. That one from the bar."

"Sarah," Johnny replied. It was a good idea, he knew, and a move that he had expected and even begun to prepare for. In New Orleans, the ghouls knew each other as well as the vampires did. They had their own shadowy society and pecking order, and were themselves an excellent source of information. Having only been made a ghoul within the year, Sarah would be low on the totem pole, but she was an outsider with new stories to tell. That would get her enough interest to be able to trade some information.

"Right, Sarah," Siras said. "I'll get a few people together here. I'll be sending McLachlan and his new childe, and Brett and his ghoul. That enough?"

"Can't know until I get there," Johnny answered, "but it should do for a start. There are also some people down there I can get to help us."

"And you also have a knack for getting anarchs to do a lot of your dirty work for you," Siras added, complimenting his childe for his ability to manipulate others into doing his will.

"Give me four nights," Johnny said. "I'll fly out tomorrow at dusk. I'll be in touch."

"Make sure that you are," Siras instructed as his childe stood to leave. "The last thing I need is you getting all distracted and ending up celebrating Mardi Gras instead of doing the work you were sent for."

"Mardi Gras isn't for another month," Johnny said with a smile as he walked from the room. "Surely we'll be done by then. It might even give us a chance to relax after the siege."

"Great," Siras muttered as his childe left. The head of the clan knew all too well that few sieges could be lifted within a month. To win that quickly, they would need to find the central pack or packs of the Sabbat which were running the show, and then wipe them out. Such a feat was rarely accomplished. True, Siras knew, Johnny and Matt had helped defeat a siege in San Francisco by achieving such a goal, but he doubted that Johnny could arrange such a trick again. He had the definite feeling the Telemon would be in this for the long haul.

**II**

"What's that smell?" Sarah asked as soon as she opened the door of the cab and stepped out into the night air.

"That's New Orleans," Johnny replied evenly. "Or, more precisely, that's the Mississippi River. Cancer Alley is north of the city, between here and Baton Rouge, along the river. Dozens of corporations set up shop and spill millions of gallons of chemicals into the river each day. Makes Newark look like a fucking flower garden."

"It didn't smell this bad back at the airport," Sarah commented.

"That was because we were up by the lake," Johnny said, referring to Lake Pontchartrain. "The lake has a whole different kind of pollution. It was raw sewage that went in there, but there's been a half-ass Louisiana effort to clean it up. Word has it that within a few years the sewage and bacteria levels will be safe enough for swimming, which only means that it will be as nice as Jones Beach on Long Island. That's sure not saying a whole hell of a lot."

"I guess not," Sarah agreed. "So where the hell are we?"

"Uptown," Johnny answered. The small vampire pointed across the street as the cab pulled away. "That's Phillip's, a popular college bar and frequent anarch watering hole. You'll be working there." From what he could remember, his ghoul would fit in perfectly at Phillip's. She was a college-aged girl, which meant she would blend right in with the other barmaids and the patrons, almost all of whom were students at nearby Tulane or Loyola. She was thin, had straight blonde hair, was average height, and had large breasts, which made for good tips when she wore a tight shirt. Johnny had met Sarah in State College, where she had been working in a local tavern. She was equally comfortable waiting on customers or tending bar, so she was certainly competent for the job. In all, she was one of the best informers he had ever had. Sarah had a quality that was impossible to define – she could get close to people. Strangers and friends alike always wanted to have her around. It was something that went beyond simple charisma, and she was more than willing to use her talents to advance Johnny's schemes. Perhaps that was the trait in her that Yashida liked best.

"They're hiring?" Sarah asked, not seeing any signs.

"You're expected," Johnny answered. "Mason worked out an agreement a couple of nights ago. The owner is a Toreador ghoul and was open-minded in helping out the new folks. Just keep a low profile and watch out for people pumping you for information."

"Sure," Sarah muttered as she walked over to the entrance. Phillip's was a fairly seedy looking place, with most of the building set in shadow. It sat on a corner, and though Sarah could hear music playing inside, there were no groups of people around the door, and no windows that betrayed how full or empty the place was.

The two walked in, taking a moment for the doorman to quickly scan their driver's licenses with a flashlight, and then moved further into the building. Phillip's was dominated by one large room with tables near the door, and a large bar beyond that. If one wished to walk in further, he could walk up a couple of steps to play pool on one of the two tables, or relax on the loveseat that was next to one of the tables. Johnny looked the area over, noting that the loveseat was occupied, and each table seemed to have at least two couples waiting for a game. A small group of young women was circled around the jukebox, selecting songs that Johnny was confident would be as irritating as the unidentifiable hip-hop that was already playing. That was the one thing the small Telemon had against the bar. The dark, smoky haze that hung in the air was nice, the beer was affordable, the women were attractive, and the pool games were always competitive without leaving no hope for victory, but the music in the jukebox sucked ass. There was a small selection of disco, the music that Johnny had been raised to hate, and some early-90's alternative rock that he had grown to love, but most of it was hip-hoppy crap that just never seemed to fit the mood of the bar.

"They just opened a patio out the back door," Johnny heard a familiar voice say from behind him. He turned to see Michelle standing before him, looking as darkly trashy as ever.

"Good to see you again," he commented, scanning the room to find Uiko and Mason. He knew that they would not be far from Michelle, since she had been assigned to watch over their behavior, and vice versa. Mason walked out of the men's room just as Johnny started to look for him, and the large bodyguard walked directly to the bar and into the waiting arms of a thirty-something woman. _Definitely too old to be a regular,_ Johnny thought. _Maybe she's a grad student._

Yashida continued to look around the room, and caught sight of Uiko back in the dark corner, softly kissing the neck of a young undergrad while sitting on the loveseat. Johnny could hardly believe that his gaze had simply passed right over her moments earlier. _Well, she is a Yakuza-trained ninja assassin, after all,_ he reminded himself. If anyone would keep a low profile, it would be Uiko. It was then that Johnny allowed his eyes to shift their focus from the couple on the loveseat to the shadows that surrounded them. A small smile crossed Johnny's lips as he realized that not only was his childe feeding, but she was practicing. Yashida had gone against his earlier instincts and decided to instruct a childe in the vampiric art of obtenebration, an ability that allowed the novice to manipulate shadows. Of course, as one gained skill, as Yashida had, the power became something terrible, but that reality, and the dark temptations that arose from it, were troubles he could save for a later day. It would be years before Uiko mastered the art to a level great enough to endanger herself.

"Anyone else in the bar?" Yashida asked his sidekick.

"Still early," Michelle responded. "Not even the drug dealers are here yet."

Johnny only nodded in response. _Yes, of course, the drug dealers._ That was one thing about Phillip's that defined it as a prototypical New Orleans bar. As was common in many bars across the country, drug deals were an everyday event. However, many of the bouncers in Phillips were off-duty New Orleans police officers. They knew all too well that the drug trade was present, and they demanded a piece of the action in return for looking the other way. It was a deal by which all prospered. The college students got their drugs, the police not only got money from a moonlighting job but also the protection and hush money paid by drug dealers, who in turn received a guarantee that the bar would not be raided. There was also the valuable advantage that the violence that often accompanied the drug trade would be kept out of the picture, at least on the premises.

"Later on it looks like Simeon should be showing up," Michelle said, referring to the leader of Damage Incorporated. "He and Ghetto Blaster are the only ones left from the old days. The rest of the member list turned over when another gang tried to move into uptown."

"Who were they?" Johnny asked. He remembered a story that he had heard from K.T. Corben long ago. The Gangrel mercenary had been in Charlotte when the Sabbat had laid the city under siege. The Sabbat had been able to maneuver some of their spies into the city by sending a small pack in to challenge the territory of a Brujah gang, all the while claiming they were anarchs from the West Coast. The Sabbat pack was, of course, driven off just as had been planned. However, the Brujah had taken losses in the small war, and needed to fill their ranks. That's when the real Sabbat spies came in and infiltrated the established groups. No one thought to suspect a gang that had been in the city for decades, and it was ignored while occasional Sabbat incursions directed Camarilla attention elsewhere. In the end, K.T. said he had been the only one to figure out what had happened, and he was in no hurry to point out the oversight to his employers. After all, he knew, such knowledge could give him an edge in the future. He had only shared the information with Johnny when Yashida offered some interesting tidbits about garou magical items. It seemed that the facts of the situation with Damage Incorporated might match up.

"There are three newbies, not counting Uiko," Michelle answered, letting Johnny know that his childe had been able to ingratiate herself with the young gang. Mason, as had been planned, was left out of the arrangement, remaining an ace in the hole, so to speak. As long as no one knew that Johnny had a Navy SEAL waiting in the wings as backup, they might make a reckless decision. Besides, it would have been impossible to get Mason to fit in with Damage Incorporated. He had been a professional for too long, and it had affected him. He would never be able to shake the aura of his military demeanor. "As for the newbies, there's some girl calls herself Cabbage Patch." Johnny could only look at Michelle in disbelieving silence. "Don't look at me that way," she said condescendingly as she punched Johnny in the shoulder. "It's not like I came up with the name. She's a cute little thing, though. She claims to be from Des Moines."

"There are kindred in Des Moines?" Johnny asked jokingly.

"I guess so," Michelle answered. "Apparently, though, they're not very organized. Cabbage Patch is Caitiff, which sounds like it's not uncommon out there." Johnny nodded at the reference to the Caitiff, the young vampires of the world that were said to be clanless. Some of them had such thin blood that they were barely Cainite, and could not embrace any childer. Others had been embraced and abandoned, never to know their sire or their heritage. The Caitiff were looked down upon by most of the elders, which made them that much more attractive to anarch gangs, which were themselves composed largely of outcasts. Indeed, both Johnny and Michelle had each claimed to be Caitiff, and had even lied and said that Johnny was Michelle's sire. Thus far, no Tremere warlocks had shown up to use blood magic to discover the lie. That was the only means Johnny could think of for discovering his ruse.

"Any others?" Johnny asked.

"Two," Michelle said with a slight nod. "Barb is a newcomer from your old stomping grounds in L.A., and also claims to be Caitiff."

"Claims to be?" Johnny asked. "You don't sound convinced."

"It's little things," Michelle answered. "You taught me to trust my instincts, and they tell me she's more than she's letting on. I don't know if she's Sabbat, but I really doubt she's clanless."

"Okay," Johnny said, deciding to keep his eyes open around Barb. "Who's the last one?"

"Guy everyone calls DeNiro. Don't know his real name, but he looks and sounds _exactly_ like DeNiro did in The Godfather 2."

"Really?" Johnny asked, deciding that he had to meet this vampire. The Godfather trilogy composed some of his favorite movies, though he had to admit that the only good things about the second film were the flashback scenes that De Niro was in. They simply made the movie, and led to an interesting piece of movie trivia. Only once have two different actors won Academy Awards for playing the same character at different points in his life. Those actors were Marlon Brando and Robert De Niro, both playing Don Vito Corleone.

"I'm gonna have to borrow your bike," Johnny said, referring to Michelle's Harley. Usually he would never be caught dead riding a Harley Davidson; they were just about the opposite of his image. The small Telemon vastly preferred the Kawasaki Ninja over any other motorcycle. However, he needed transportation, and knew he was certainly not going to pay for another cab.

"Where you goin'?" Michelle asked playfully.

"I guess I should go check in with our prospective employers," Johnny answered. "I may be acting the role of Caitiff, but there are still rules to follow. Besides, I should really make certain that the entire job is on the level. That means meeting with the prince. No sense wasting our time for a couple of nights before we really get into it."

"Guess not," Michelle agreed. "I assume you're going to want to clean up before going to meet with the man."

"Absolutely," Johnny replied. "I certainly can't go in there in jeans and a hockey jersey," he continued. "The Telemon have an image to uphold. Where's our haven?" he asked, knowing that his clothes would be there. He had sent several weapons and changes of clothes with Michelle and his childer, so that he would not have to rush to get things together before leaving on an early flight.

"Well if you're gonna get all dolled up for His Grace, you might want to take Mason's Jeep," the Gangrel woman advised. "Expensive clothes don't exactly go well with wind-swept hair."

"I guess not," Johnny agreed. The small Telemon walked over to his far larger childe and picked the man's pocket as he walked by. He did not want to risk messing up his childe's chance to feed on the young woman with whom he was speaking, and Johnny was fairly certain that Mason would not mind lending out his Jeep. _As long as I get it back before he notices it's gone,_ Johnny thought wryly. Without another word, Yashida was out the door and moving toward a Jeep that had been parked across the street. He figured it would be the right vehicle. Mason had been instructed to get to the bar early, and that meant he would have been able to park close by. As the door opened, Johnny grinned and jumped into the passenger's seat. He had a lot to do, and not much time to do it. He needed to get dressed up, meet with the prince, get changed again into his ripped jeans and leather biker jacket, come back to the bar and fall in with the old crowd, and then probably get involved in some violent, yet discrete, battle for territory. He shook his head in disbelief as he wondered how he ever talked himself into coming back to New Orleans.

**III**

K.T. Corben walked slowly into the mall of the Ober Gatlinburg Ski Resort. He had been instructed to meet with his contact at the side of the ice-skating rink, which was not at all hard to find. The rink completely dominated the inside of the building, and was currently used by only slightly more than a dozen people. For a quick second K.T. tried to block his mind from the fear of what Erica, his constant sidekick, was doing in the nearby town. The attempt, however, was in vain. Below Ober Gatlinburg was, not surprisingly, the town of Gatlinburg, a quaint tourist trap in Tennessee. The area had seen a lot of development in recent years, which had culminated with the opening of Dollywood, Dolly Parton's own amusement park, just down the road. _Such things make immortality seem like a curse,_ K.T. thought sourly. _I didn't ever feel the need to live in a day and age where overrated country music "stars" had their own version of Six Flags. Why the hell can't Stevie Ray Vaughan still be alive? I bet he'd make a kick-ass amusement park._

"Nice to see you again, K.T.," a familiar voice said from behind the Gangrel mercenary.

"What brings you down from on high?" K.T. asked, not bothering to turn around. He recognized the voice as belonging to Philip, the mysterious old Gangrel that had recruited him into the Black Hand.

"We have an important mission," Philip replied, "and we believe someone with your abilities and résumé is absolutely perfect for the job."

"Great," K.T. muttered. The younger Gangrel knew all too well that while he was himself well over fifty years old, he was, nonetheless, a child by the standards of those for whom he worked. Any undesirable job was passed his way; any mission that carried the distinct possibility of death was considered an ideal "test" for him. Primarily, he knew, he was known not simply seen as a child, but as a thug. That led to every task requiring an excess of brute force being "perfect for someone with his abilities." He had only been in the Black Hand for a short time, but he was already beginning to get used to the familiar refrain.

"We need you to go to New Orleans," Philip continued. "The city has been in the early stages of a Sabbat siege for over two years now. The Sabbat has gathered its information and apparently infiltrated a few of the anarch gangs. The shooting should start very soon. The prince has apparently figured this out and has already begun to hire mercenaries."

"Meaning it should be fairly easy for me to find a job," K.T. said, completing Philip's thought.

"I have no doubt that someone with your credentials could do quite well working in defense of the city," Philip commented, tossing a rare compliment in K.T.'s direction. "However, that is not your assignment. You are to be approached by the Sabbat. They appear to want some experienced soldiers to rush into the fray with many of their younger vampires. Some of my associates were actually involved in the meetings, and your name came up. We want information on the bishop leading the siege. Some have said that he might someday be worthy of us. The period of observation is to begin. You will get us the information that we desire."

"Are you saying they've forgotten about New York?" K.T. asked, surprised that members of the Sabbat would ever consider hiring him. K.T. had had an uncomfortable encounter with several of the higher-ranking Sabbat leaders while he had been in New York City not long before.

"Whether they have or not is irrelevant," Philip replied. "New York is far to the north, and none of the concern of the bishop in command. Mercenaries are hard to come by, especially ones that have experience on both sides of a Sabbat siege. I dare say you may be the only kindred in the country that has such a dubious distinction listed in his credentials."

"Only reason is that any mercenary stupid enough to get involved in more than one siege usually ends up dead," K.T. pointed out. "Things tend to get a little rough."

"And this should be no exception," Philip said. "In fact, we expect the Sabbat to succeed in their attempt. Their Bishop is, as I have already said, an incredibly capable man, especially for one so young. Hell, he's even younger than you are, K.T."

"So when do I meet him?" the mercenary asked.

"In about fifteen minutes," Philip answered.

"What?" K.T. said, finally turning around to face Philip. "Nice of you to give me lots of warning."

"Cheer up, K.T.," Philip suggested, a smile beginning to spread across his lips. "This whole situation may give you a chance to clear up your problems with Erica."

"What about Erica?" K.T. asked menacingly.

"You must really learn to control your emotions better, K.T." Philip chided. "Or at least have the grace to conceal them better. It is not wise to allow others to read you like an open book. It makes you vulnerable. All I meant was that when your name was mentioned, Erica's was, as well. The Bishop knows of your relationship and has no problem whatsoever with having her around."

"She's accused of trying to kill a cardinal," K.T. pointed out. "That's not something this guy is likely to overlook. Last I heard, that particular crime carries a death sentence."

"Only if the vampire is found guilty," Philip pointed out. "This Bishop has no interest in holding the requisite trial. He knows Polonia rather well and is not particularly thrilled that any assassination attempt in New York actually failed."

"So this bishop and Polonia are political rivals?" K.T. asked.

"Of a sort. Your thinking is still too Camarilla, though."

"I'll get over that, I'm sure," K.T. replied glibly. "Just keep sending me in to work with the Sabbat."

"It's good that you are able to retain your sense of humor with the job that awaits you," Philip commented. "I think you may be surprised by some of the things you find in New Orleans."

"What's that supposed to mean?" K.T. asked suspiciously.

"All in due time," Philip replied. At that the old Gangrel turned and walked away, leaving the younger Gangrel mercenary to wait alone, as he had expected, for the representatives of the Sabbat.

"How do you think he'll react?" a disembodied voice asked Philip, a strong Arab accent filtering through the words.

"If I knew, then I would have been able to tell him everything," Philip replied, still continuing toward the door. He did not mind appearing to the casual observer as if he was talking to himself. The Gangrel felt that only he needed to know for certain that he was speaking to his invisible Assamite associate and bodyguard. "I was not completely satisfied with K.T.'s performance in San Francisco. Perhaps MacIntyre was right, the mercenary may have been too young to be brought into the fold."

"Because he still thinks like a mortal," the voice concluded.

"Yes," Philip agreed. "He is still hung up on the ideas of friendship and loyalty. That may be a problem. To be with us, he must abandon friendship and demonstrate loyalty only for us. It will do him good to have to fight the Telemon. K.T.'s relationship with Johnny Yashida has gone on long enough."

"And if K.T. does not kill him?" the bodyguard asked.

"Are you suggesting that young Johnny Yashida could actually win?" Philip questioned, his face betraying his surprise. "I hardly think that possible."

"K.T. may not be as limited in his thinking as you presume," the voice replied. "There are other things besides friendship and loyalty. There is also honor. All of the old clans but we Assamites seem to have forgotten. The Telemon know of honor, and I believe K.T. does, as well. You may yet be surprised, Philip."

"I doubt it, Hassan," Philip said confidently. "Our young K.T. will pass his test. He will dispatch Johnny Yashida and the rest of the Telemon defenders. He will help the Sabbat take New Orleans, which will wrap up the attention of dozens of the New World's more powerful Camarilla and Sabbat elders for a decade to come. That will get everyone to stop asking questions about what really happened in San Francisco, and may even take off some of the heat remaining from that fiasco K.T. caused in New York. I daresay he'll even get Erica free and clear of the problems with her past."

"And the bishop?" Hassan asked.

"Who cares?" Philip replied. "He has shown flashes of brilliance, but he's unproven. Maybe someday we'll actually care about watching him. For now, though, he simply provides the excuse for getting K.T. into New Orleans for the real test."

"And if he fails this test of yours?" Hassan asked.

"Then I believe young K.T. will have proven himself unworthy to remain in our presence," Philip replied evenly. "If Johnny Yashida lives at the end of this siege, then you will finally have the pleasure you have been waiting for. You will be permitted to dispose of Mr. Corben."

**IV**

"I'm here to present myself to the prince," Yashida said formally as he was ushered into an elegant sitting room. Behind a large mahogany desk sat a well-dressed man that the small Telemon could only assume was the regent, Gregory Ash. _He matches the description we were given,_ Yashida thought, _but I really wish we had a picture to work with._ Gregory Ash had never allowed himself to be photographed and had rarely even been seen in public. The only time he could be counted on to be amongst the kindred was during the Prince's Ball, a masquerade ball held every year on Lundi Gras, the night before Mardi Gras. Then, of course, the regent was hidden behind a mask. Only the strongest of the city's kindred had ever met face to face with the prince with any regularity. The younger vampires, mostly anarchs who would never have gone to the trouble of presenting themselves, had never even seen Ash.

With one quick glance toward a large mirror on the right side of the room, Johnny checked his appearance one last time. Of course, it was too late to actually correct anything that dissatisfied him, but he needed to assure himself once again that he was presenting a professional image. The black slacks, shirt, and sports jacket were neat and unwrinkled. The black shoes were completely scuff-free, and his jet-black hair was all in place, slicked back with an over-abundance of maximum hold gel. He was impressed that he had been so successful in looking so good in such a short time.

"Formal presentation is an unusual event here," the man behind the desk commented. "We commonly wait until someone we don't recognize is put down, and then simply identify the body at the morgue." Johnny heard a slight click from the wall to his left, and knew that a hidden sentry was probably taking his picture, even as he targeted the Telemon's head in the crosshairs of an assault rifle. _That's fine with me,_ Yashida contemplated. _Take my picture. It's only fair. After all, I just used the hidden mini-camera in my lapel to take the first snapshot of your precious regent._

"Unusual or not, the Traditions demand that one present himself to the master of a domain," Johnny replied evenly. "That has been taken to mean, in modern terms, presentation to the prince."

"You a big follower of the rules?" the man asked.

"Kindred law has a purpose," Yashida answered evenly, "and besides, I wanted to meet you before I got settled."

"Your name," the man prompted.

"Are you the prince?" Johnny asked, stubbornly refusing to allow himself to be commanded before he knew with whom he dealt.

"I am Gregory Ash," the man replied, confirming Johnny's suspicions. "I am the regent of the city. I am the hand of the prince. In terms of our beloved laws, presenting yourself to me is enough to satisfy the Traditions."

"My name is Johnny Yashida," the small Telemon answered. Immediately there was a light of recognition in the regent's eyes, satisfying Johnny's curiosity. He apparently had indeed met with an official representative of the prince, or in this case, the regent. The job appeared to be legitimate.

"You're the man who met with Southpaw," Ash said. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. I was given a description that does not entirely match the man that now stands before me."

"That was intentional," Johnny replied. "We met in Sabbat-held territory, and I had no intention of drawing attention to myself by going out in public decked out in Armani." Johnny could see that Ash immediately recognized the comment for what it was. The regent realized that he had not had Southpaw attired appropriately for the meeting on Staten Island. "Since I believe in dressing for the occasion, I decided that tailored suits were called for this evening. Later on I'll go back into my gang-banger idiom."

"So am I to take it that the Telemon have decided to take the job?" the regent asked as he motioned Johnny to sit in an Italian leather chair in front of the desk.

"That's what I'm here to find out," Johnny replied. "I told Southpaw about our rates and the rules we expect you to abide by."

"The rules are acceptable," Ash said. "For now, anyway."

"They will be acceptable for the entire job, or we'll leave," Johnny retorted. "I don't remember mentioning anything that was open to debate. We run our own show, and you pay us to do it. Should that change, the deal is off."

"Fair enough," the regent replied smoothly, remaining as unflappable as any reasonably well prepared Ventrue. "As for compensation, Southpaw only said that your prices start at $10,000 a day."

"That's right," Johnny answered. "You will pay the rate for each of our soldiers, for one week in advance. If things have been busy, the price goes up the next week, and if it's been slow, the price will come down, perhaps all the way to the base $10,000. This is Wednesday, so let's just say that every Wednesday night one of our people will meet with you to decide the amount that is owed. Before Thursday night, that amount will be deposited in a numbered Cayman Islands account that I'll give you. If you don't make the deposit, we leave. It's that simple."

"So it's ten thousand per day, for each of your people, for this coming week," Ash said. "How many are we talking?"

"Including me, there are currently four of us," Johnny answered. "There is a fifth on his way, but he won't arrive until the weekend. We'll pro-rate his salary for the week, and I'll let you know for sure when he'll get here. You can deposit upon his arrival. A few additional soldiers are on stand-by, and if we need them we'll discuss the increase of funds at that time."

"So that's $280,000 for the first week," the regent said, not batting an eyelash at the amount, "plus forty to fifty later on."

"There's also a charge of five hundred per day for a ghoul we brought along," Johnny added. "She works cheap, because there's virtually no chance of her getting into combat. That number will not be going up, either. She'll stay at her base salary."

"Maybe I should have just hired an army of ghouls," Ash said, attempting a small joke. Johnny hid his amusement, and his disappointment. There was something about this regent that simply seemed weak. He lacked the strength of character that Yashida had seen in so many other princes. _If New Orleans survives this siege, it certainly won't be because of him_.

"Just a couple more things," Yashida said. "First, don't try to contact me. I'll get in touch with you every couple of days. Second, if for some reason you decide to break that rule, I'll be going by the name Billy Lee. If you go looking for Johnny Yashida, then at best you'll find nothing. At worst, you'll blow my cover."

"Understood," Ash said.

_Yes, he certainly gives in too easily,_ Johnny thought_. He must be terrified of the Sabbat, no matter how cool he's acting. He _is_ weak._ "There's also the final matter of vehicles," Yashida added as he stood slowly. I'll require a 2000 Mustang GT, automatic transmission and moon roof." Johnny generally hated to drive an automatic if it could be avoided, but in a Sabbat siege it would be best to keep the extra hand available for firing a weapon while he drove. That would not have been possible with a standard.

"And when do you need it?" the regent asked.

"Tomorrow at dusk," the Telemon replied evenly. "Have it parked on the roof of the Tulane University parking deck. You can leave two sets of keys under the floormat. I'll worry about getting in on my own."

"If that's how you want it," Ash answered. "Until next week, then, I assume."

"Unless something goes wrong between now and then," Johnny replied with a slight grin. "But what are the odds of that happening, what with a Sabbat siege and all?" Yashida quickly walked out the door, knowing by the regent's expression that he had overstayed his welcome. _Now to have a little fun_, the small vampire mused. _So much to do, and so little time._ He considered for a moment going hunting for stray vampires, starting early in his battle against the Sabbat, but decided against it. In the end, he felt that he would have little to worry about in the first wave of the Sabbat attack. The vampires the Sabbat sent against them initially would be young and inexperienced, used simply as shock troops to thin out the ranks of the defenders. _I can't imagine that they would have anyone worthy of causing me to worry,_ the Telemon reflected.

**V**

"It is nice to finally meet you face to face, Mr. Corben," the man said as he walked up to K.T. The Gangrel mercenary looked over the pair that had approached him, and decided that the smaller man, the one who had spoken, was likely the bishop's representative. The larger of the two would be a bodyguard, possibly a Templar. He would have to remain alert and respectful at all times.

"I'm hoping the experience is everything you had hoped it would be," K.T. responded sarcastically. "Who exactly are you?"

"My name is Jacques Roi," the man answered, his voice holding only the slightest hint of a French accent. "I'm the bishop who's looking to hire you."

K.T. Corben masked any trace of surprise that might have shown through someone of fewer years. He had assumed that the bishop would have left the hiring of mercenaries to a competent subordinate rather than assume the mundane responsibility himself. K.T. looked the bishop over, searching for any clue as to how the Sabbat leader thought or acted. Roi was well built, obviously having taken care of himself both before and after the embrace. He dressed casually, in Khakis, brown Doc Martins, and a tan wool sweater, and his hair was brushed, but not overly attended to. He had deep brown eyes, which peered out at him from behind small, gold-rimmed glasses. He had, for lack of a better term, a somewhat European appearance. _Unusual,_ the mercenary noted. Jacques appeared to be from the Old World, where the power of the Camarilla was virtually absolute. The home of the Sabbat had always been in the Americas_. Who is this man? _the mercenary wondered_. I don't know that I've ever heard of a European Sabbat Bishop leading war parties._

"You have interesting tastes in meeting places," K.T. commented, gesturing down towards the skating rink below. He used the brief motion to allow his mind to hope that Erica was still safe. For all he knew, the Sabbat had set up the meeting simply to extinguish his companion, an unfortunately well-known loyalist.

"The meeting place seemed discrete," the bishop replied. "What hunter would ever go to the Ober Gatlinburg ski resort to find vampires? What Camarilla soldiers would think to look for me here?"

"Fair enough," K.T. muttered, already becoming irritated with Jacques' slightly overconfident and vaguely flamboyant demeanor. "You wanted to talk, so let's talk. I hear you're interested in hiring me."

"Yes, for a siege," the bishop replied. "I hear you've participated in sieges before."

"Yeah, and that experience won't come cheaply to you," K.T. answered with a thin smile.

"We are prepared to offer you a million dollars, Mr. Corben," Jacques said evenly. "Fifty percent up front, and the rest when the city is captured."

"The rest when either the city is captured or you give up your attempt," K.T. countered.

"Of course, that is what I meant," the bishop responded smoothly. "I simply never consider the possibility of failure."

"Sure you don't," K.T. said. "If you want to help guarantee success, though, it's gonna cost you more than only one million dollars." The Gangrel was pissed off that he had to take part in the siege, and was bordering on furious that his efforts would serve the Sabbat. He had always preferred to fight for the Camarilla, as it was better funded and offered greater perks, such as established feeding grounds. K.T. would, of course, follow Philip's instructions and join Roi's forces, but he saw no harm in trying to get as good a deal as he could.

"And just how much were you thinking?"

"Two million, with 75 up front," the Gangrel countered.

"I'll go no higher than one and a half," Roi said evenly. "I will, however, give you a full million upon acceptance of the assignment."

"Good enough," K.T. muttered, satisfied that he had both worked as good a deal as he could expect, and that he had acted the role of the greedy mercenary enough to ensure that Roi did not suspect that K.T. had any ulterior motives. "When do you expect me?"

"Many of our people are in place and simply awaiting my commands, just like a life-size chessboard," Jacques said. For the briefest of moments, K.T. thought he saw the bishop sneak a glance at the skating rink below, as if he was looking for someone. K.T. feared that Roi was looking for Erica, but as quickly as he had gotten that feeling, it had already almost passed. "You will be needed on Saturday night, Mr. Corben. That is when we will launch the combat phase of our siege."

"That doesn't give me much time to get ready," K.T. commented.

"I think you'll make due with the time you have," the bishop said ominously. "On Saturday night, go to the Superdome ticket office. There will be two tickets waiting for you, for the monster truck rally. Once in your seats, you will meet a contact that will direct you toward a second location, one that will be scouted out and made secure. I will introduce you to your coworkers at that time. Once we leave the meeting, the real work gets started."

"Two tickets?" K.T. asked. The mercenary had hoped that he would be able to leave Erica outside the city and prevent the Sabbat from getting wind of where she was. Now, more than ever, he was feeling as if they were being set up.

"Let's not dance around this subject, Mr. Corben," Jacques answered, seeming irritated that he even needed to broach the issue. "I heard about what happened in New York. As for you, I know it was certainly only business. You have been around for decades, and have fought on both sides of the war between the Sabbat and Camarilla. You are a true mercenary, always fighting for the right price. I hold no grudge against you for what happened. As for your new sidekick, Ms. Blackwell, I have a hard time accepting the party line."

"Which is?" K.T. asked. The Gangrel had always wondered what story was passed around New York after he and Erica had fled.

"The story is that a Panders pack leader named Cordoba, and his partner in crime Erica Blackwell, hired you to help them extinguish Polonia, the Cardinal of the entire eastern United States. I find this absurd. Perhaps Cordoba might have been strong enough to take part in such an attack, but he lacked the brainpower to formulate a plan that you would willingly take part in, not to mention the kind of money he would need to convince you to even tag along. And it's almost certain that Ms. Blackwell, generally regarded as a bubble-headed bimbo who is more trouble than she is worth, could have come up with either the scheme or the cash. In fact, she's too young to even have a chance of lasting more than ten seconds against just one of Polonia's dozen Templars. The entire fiasco smacks of desperation and cover-up. I don't know what happened in New York, Mr. Corben, and I truly don't care. I have no love for Polonia, and would not have shed a tear if any assassination attempt had succeeded, anyway.

"All I care about is getting soldiers. You are an excellent one, and I expect that hiring you means getting Erica Blackwell at the same time. However, I will caution you that while I have no problem with the two of you, some of my associates may. At least, that is, if they ever found out who she truly is." The bishop reached down and lifted his small briefcase. "Inside, Mr. Corben, is everything you will need to conceal your friend's true identity. Make sure she follows the instructions. Otherwise, she may be placing herself in danger, and I assume that would be a distraction to you. I would hate to waste one and a half million dollars on a mercenary that is more concerned with protecting his girlfriend than with extinguishing Camarilla soldiers."

"Yeah, that would be too bad," K.T. grumbled as he took the briefcase from the bishop. "Anything else?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then I'll see you Saturday night." At that, the mercenary strode purposefully toward the exit, looking forward to getting back to his companion. _I can't believe Philip got me into this,_ he thought angrily. _Working for him is getting to be far more trouble than it's worth._

**VI**

"Well as I live and breathe, if it ain't Buddy Lee," a voice yelled from across the bar as Yashida walked back into Phillip's.

"That's Billy Lee," Johnny corrected, recognizing the voice as having come from Simeon, the de facto 'leader' of Damage Incorporated. In reality, the gang was just a group of anarchs that had a common interest in having fun. Simeon generally had the best ideas of how to cause trouble, and so most of the time the gang members followed him. He only ever held as much authority over the group as he was given.

"Buddy Lee is that little doll from the Levi's commercials," Michelle said, walking into the conversation.

"Oh, that's right," Simeon commented with an understanding nod. "I always did get the two of them mixed up. Easy enough to do, though. There is a resemblance."

"But that Buddy Lee guy is the one with the slogan 'Can't bust 'em,' " Michelle pointed out with a smile. "I hardly think you can say you can't bust Billy."

"Thanks a lot," Johnny said with a playful grin. "When are you gonna start sticking up for me?"

"When you need it, lover," Michelle replied, wrapping her arm around her companion. It was the part they played in New Orleans. Johnny wanted to keep a low profile, and slumming it with Michelle allowed him to do that. As far as the anarchs of the Big Easy were concerned, Johnny had only been embraced about five years ago, and was then abandoned by his sire. When he had finally figured out what he was, he embraced his mortal lover, Michelle. Now the two of them wandered the country, looking for new and interesting ways to party. Johnny knew it was unlikely that as long as he dressed in a black leather biker jacket, ripped blue jeans, and black leather boots, anyone would ever suspect him of belonging to a new bloodline from the East Coast, one that had made a name for itself with its rigid discipline and expertise at fighting the Sabbat. No one would ever believe he was Telemon.

"So what's on the agenda for tonight?" Johnny asked.

"Uiko thinks we should go down to the Quarter," Simeon said. "I think it sounds like it could be fun."

"Uiko?" Johnny asked, making certain he looked as puzzled as he should. The plan had called for Uiko to fall into the gang on her own, without any direct help from Michelle. Of course, Michelle had been the one gang member to instantly take a liking to the new girl, and that had certainly helped Uiko's task, but it was not as if she introduced Uiko around. Yashida wanted his childe's entrance to look as natural as possible.

"She's a new girl, from San Francisco," Simeon replied. "You've been out there, right?"

"Yeah," Johnny confirmed. "I was there when a pack of werewolves apparently declared war on the prince. It was total chaos. I was able to steal lots of nice stuff."

"You never could pass up the pretty things," the anarch responded with a grin. "That must be a clue about your lineage. You have to be Toreador."

"Then the Quarter sounds like a perfect place," Johnny agreed, passing on making any comments about his lineage. He was accepted as being Caitiff. He had no intention of laying the act on thick. Besides, the opportunity to get into the Quarter was something he knew he should not pass up. Without a strong prince to run the show, several of the clans had staked a claim to a separate section of the city. The Toreador had seized the French Quarter, citing their interests in art, music, tourism, and a dozen clubs that they owned in the area. They worked, to a slight degree, with the Ventrue, who also had some financial interests in the district. However, if one looked at a map of the city, shaded in according to the clan that claimed the area, the Quarter was Toreador.

"How about I gather up the gang and meet you and Michelle down there in a little bit?" Simeon suggested.

"Anyplace in particular?" Johnny asked.

"Same old place as usual," Simeon replied. "I think you remember where."

"I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion," Johnny answered.

"I don't think we were ever dressed for the occasion," Simeon responded sarcastically. "Just get your ass down there and scout the place out for us, Billy."

"Just like old times," Yashida grumbled.

"Just like," Simeon answered, his voice containing just a hint of nostalgia.

Without another word, Johnny grabbed Michelle by the arm and dragged her along, making sure he was out of the bar before Simeon gathered any of the other people together. He wanted to meet the new members of Damage Incorporated all at the same time, so he could see if any of them, or more than one, reacted unusually to him. He feared that the Sabbat had infiltrated his gang, and knew that any infiltration would likely have taken place with more than just one soldier.

"Where exactly is the same old place as usual?" Michelle asked as the two vampires walked up to her bike. "I don't remember any hangout in particular."

"That's because this is a place where only men usually go," Johnny answered. "Now let's get going, you might have yourself some fun."

"I seriously doubt it," Michelle answered with a violent kick-start to her Harley.

"At least try to look like you're enjoying yourself," Johnny suggested, attempting to get his friend to loosen up. "It's not like you've never seen a naked woman before."

"Well, I never had one quite in my face before," Michelle answered caustically, glaring at the stripper who called herself Candy, and who was dancing right in front of the pair.

"I apologize for my associate," Johnny said gregariously as he handed a fifty over to the woman. "Perhaps we can finish this another time?"

"I sure hope so," Candy replied with an overly satisfied glance at the large bill. "You know, we do have rooms upstairs, if you'd like to go somewhere with a little more privacy."

"Perhaps later," Johnny answered. The Telemon knew that had he been mortal, he would be rather pleased with the entire situation. He had a pocket full of fifty-dollar bills, and was surrounded by attractive, half-naked women. Before his embrace, he had dreamt of moments like this. Now, however, it did not mean as much as he had always thought. He was a vampire, and therefore had no physical, sexual desire. He looked at the well toned nineteen and twenty year-old girls around the room, and knew he that they were attractive. However, the experience went no further than an appreciation of their beauty. Each one was, in the end, little more than a possible meal to him.

"You have about three seconds to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, or I'm gonna pistol whip you," Michelle threatened, noticing that Johnny had not stopped smiling since he had walked into Maiden Voyage, one of the 'gentlemen's clubs' on Bourbon Street. "You want to see a naked woman that badly, I'll do a strip-tease for you later that's gonna have you wishing you were mortal again."

"I think I'll take you up on that," Johnny replied smoothly, knowing that would only serve to irritate his friend all the more. "Besides, the women don't do much for me," Yashida explained honestly. "But use those heightened senses of yours, and take a whiff."

Michelle looked at Johnny dubiously, and then did as he suggested. She caught the scent in a flash. "What is that?" she asked, not being able to place the sensation. "Underneath the perfume, alcohol, and sweat."

"That's desire," Johnny answered with a grin. "Pure, animal desire."

"What?"

"Pheromones," Johnny said, explaining himself. "Virtually every one of those strippers is dripping with pheromones, and every man is giving them off like a cat in heat. They don't even realize they're doing it, either. But it's adding to the sexually charged atmosphere in a way that none of them is able to describe. I guess that's another thing humans will always be able to enjoy that we never can again."

"So what does it do for the taste?" Michelle asked, referring to the blood of the mortal patrons and employees.

"You want to find out?"

"Yes," Michelle answered, her eyes widening. She had always been a little wild as a human, but since her embrace Michelle had become increasingly elated with her feeling of immortality. She was more and more willing to experience anything new. While this was not as dangerous as several of the things she had tried, it was, nonetheless, something different, and therefore welcome.

"You see anyone in particular that you want?" Johnny asked.

Michelle scanned the room, trying to find the one human that seemed more turned on than anyone else. She found him, or more precisely, them, very easily. A small group of men was sitting in the far corner, with two strippers performing table dances for them. "Bachelor party?" she asked her friend.

"Probably," Johnny muttered. "You think you can get close enough?"

"I guarantee it," Michelle answered. The Gangrel waved for the nearest waitress, and the woman came right over. Word had gotten around quickly that the young couple had a lot of money to throw about. "Hi," Michelle said awkwardly. "First, my friend needs a few shots of Tequila," Michelle said, pointing toward Yashida. "Also, I was wondering if it would be possible for me to get up on stage at all."

"Any woman in the place is welcome to dance," the waitress replied, "but there's a fifty dollar stage fee."

"Cool," Michelle replied, turning expectantly toward Yashida.

"You ever gonna find a way to stop spending my money?" he asked. He pulled two fifties from his pocket and gave them to the waitress. "One's for her stage fee, and the other is for the drinks. Make the shots Cuervo Gold, and keep the change."

The waitress nodded and turned to Michelle. "You'll have to wait a couple of minutes for us to get ready for you. I have to go tell the d.j. that we have an amateur tonight. You have any music you like?"

"You have Tempted, by Squeeze?" she asked, choosing a song that Johnny did not immediately think would work for a striptease.

"I'm sure we can dig it up."

"Great," Michelle answered with a broad smile. "Any chance of me getting back there to that bachelor party?"

"Just walk on over and tell them you've never done this before, but that you want to dance for the guy getting hitched," the waitress suggested. "Your friend will probably get his fifty back in no time."

"Like she'd ever bother to pay me back," Johnny grumbled.

"I'm sure I could find a couple of girls to help make you feel better," the waitress suggested sympathetically.

"Are all the private rooms occupied?" Johnny asked.

"No, actually, they aren't," the waitress answered with a knowing smile.

"So why don't you and a friend meet me upstairs by the pool table in about twenty minutes," Johnny suggested.

"You got it," the waitress returned with a seductive grin.

"Two of them?" Michelle asked.

"I'm older than you are," Yashida replied evenly. "I have a larger appetite."

"Yeah, I know all about your appetites," the Gangrel shot back sarcastically. "So you gonna hang around for my show?"

"As long as I still get my private screening later," Johnny answered instantly.

"That can be arranged," Michelle replied coyly. She stood up, slinked over to Johnny's neck, and bit slightly, drawing only a couple of drops of blood. "You just better let me finish the job later."

Johnny only nodded in response as the Gangrel walked across the bar toward the bachelor party. She spoke with them for only a couple of seconds before they were all nodding enthusiastically. A moment later, Squeeze came on the speakers, and Michelle was up on the stage.

The Gangrel gazed at all of the men sitting below her, gaping at her body with longing. She knew what they were all thinking – here was someone that was just like any normal woman they might meet on the street, or in a bar. She was not a professional stripper, she was just a woman who found them so interesting that she had to come over and strip for them. _Foolish humans_, she thought with amusement, _you don't turn me on. You only make me hungry._

"So who's the lucky guy," she asked with a smile, slipping out of her leather jacket and dropping it to the stage. She glanced down at the jacket casually, as if she was surprised it had come off, almost as if it had done so of its own accord, and then shifted her eyes back toward the men.

"I am," one of the guys said with somewhat slurred speech.

"Yes, you _are_ the lucky guy," Michelle confirmed. "Marriage tomorrow, but before that, you get me." In a single fluid motion she kicked off one of her boots, and then the other. In a blur she had grabbed a pole and started grinding slowly against it, looking each man up and down hungrily. In their minds, she knew, her hungry look meant she wanted sex. In her mind, to the contrary, she wanted to feed. She slithered down the pole and onto her back, then unbuttoned her jeans and slid out of them, maintaining eye contact with the engaged man at all times. His expression had become dumbfounded. It seemed it was all he could do to restrain himself from jumping on the stage to help her remove her few remaining items of clothing.

Michelle then sat up, grabbed the pole, and climbed it slowly, pulling herself back to her feet. She swung herself around a couple of times, knowing the men would enjoy her black lace thong underwear, and then stopped in front of them, moving only her hips. In a flash she had removed her shirt, and tossed it into her prey's lap. She took a deep breath, and could sense the desire that every man at the table was feeling – it was exhilarating. She went back down to the floor and stayed on her hands and knees, gazing at each of the men in turn, letting them stare at her cleavage and making them wonder how long she would keep them waiting before she took off her black lace bra. She beckoned her prey forward with one finger, and then grabbed his hand and proceeded to suck on his index finger as she spread her smile wider and wider. Then in an instant she was on her feet, and the bra was off and on the floor. The men cheered, and she continued to gyrate, enjoying the increase in desire she could sense as the men stared at her breasts.

The music slowly faded out and a song by the Chemical Brothers came on as Michelle sat down on the stage in front of the men, seeming to pant slightly. Another stripper came over and began to undress, but Michelle held the attention of her prey.

"Too bad we're in Louisiana," she commented in a breathy, sensual voice, noticing that he appeared unable to draw his attention away from her bare chest.

"Why's that?" he stammered.

"There are other states that would have let me keep going," she said seductively. "I hear they have private rooms here, if you want me to finish the show."

"Go for it, dude," one of the engaged man's friends encouraged.

"Yeah, sure," the man replied.

"Where can I take this guy for a private show?" Michelle asked another waitress that was walking by.

"Upstairs," the waitress answered. "Ask Marty at the bar. It'll cost ya."

"You have some money, don't you?" Michelle asked her intended victim.

"Of course," the man said instantly.

"Well then let's get going."

Michelle was just getting off of the elevator from the second floor when she almost walked right into Simeon, who was just arriving with the rest of Damage Incorporated.

"Hey, where's Billy?" Simeon asked, almost ignoring the fact that he had already found one of the people he had come to meet. Michelle was not surprised. She knew that Simeon had always liked Johnny more, and that he had never seemed to have much use for any female kindred; he did not think that they were much good in combat. Michelle had always found that amusing. She knew that the physical disadvantages that mortal women had as compared to men were virtually erased when they were embraced. She knew that she was more than capable of holding her own against any male vampire of equal years and generation, especially after spending so much time around the Telemon clan. However, Simeon's sexism had allowed Johnny to get closer to the head of the gang, and that had always served their ends, even before they were in the city on business. Both Michelle and Johnny liked having friends with connections, and Simeon was a New Orleans native who seemed to know virtually everyone in the city.

"I think he's still upstairs, finishing up on a late-night snack," Michelle commented absently. She was surprised that her friend had not beaten her down to the first floor. She had taken her time with her own meal, making certain she had evoked as much desire as was possible. _He damned well better not be having too much fun up there,_ she thought.

"Hey, where's Billy?" Michelle heard again, but this time the voice was one that she did not recognize. He turned to see one of the men from the bachelor party standing in front of her.

"What?" she asked, surprised that one of the men knew Johnny.

"The guy you went upstairs with," the man clarified. "You know, he's getting married in a few hours. Where is he?"

"Oh, him," Michelle answered, finally understanding. "I thought you meant someone else. I didn't know his name was Billy, too. He's still upstairs."

"What?"

"The rat bastard passed out just when things were getting interesting," Michelle said. "And you should probably make sure he doesn't drink too much after the wedding, or I doubt he'll be able to satisfy his wife on their wedding night, if you know what I mean." She held up her index finger and then bent it meaningfully, and the man only smiled in response and walked toward the elevator, going upstairs to get his friend. As the door opened, Johnny stepped off lightly and walked toward Simeon and Michelle.

"Where's the rest of them?" the Telemon asked.

"They went up the block to get some smokes," Simeon answered. "What were you doing?"

"Two strippers," Johnny answered with a sly grin. A sideways glance let him know that Michelle was not amused, but he did not care overly much. He was not all too happy with her exhibition on the stage earlier, although he had to admit that 'Tempted' had proven to be a fairly suitable song.

"So, anything interesting we can do?" Johnny asked.

"It's Wednesday, so there should be a good number of bikers at the Dungeon," Simeon pointed out, referring to a small, dark bar off Bourbon Street. "We could always go there and bash some heads."

"Why don't we just take care of Damage Control?" Michelle suggested. "Those pricks have a huge beating coming their way."

"Damage Control?" Johnny asked, doing an admirable job of hiding his amusement.

"It's another gang that just moved in," Simeon answered. "They're really pretty tough, maybe tougher than most any other anarch gang I've ever seen. They didn't have a name until they smacked us around a couple of times, then they got it in their heads that they should call themselves Damage Control. The name already sorta stuck."

"Where are they?" Johnny asked, playing the role of the pissed off anarch. He hid his curiosity, knowing that in all probability Damage Control was a Sabbat pack rather than a simple anarch gang, and had succeeded in settling into the city. _They would never have gotten away with something so obvious with a strong, or at least capable, prince,_ Johnny thought. _It's a good thing we get paid in advance each week, 'cause this city is probably gonna fall really quickly._

"Funny you should ask," Simeon responded. "They're usually down in the Quarter for most of the night, pissing off the local Toreador. Then they go Uptown, feed on the drunken stragglers of the college crowd, and then they usually find us and beat us around a little bit. If you really want to meet them, all we really have to do is go back uptown in a little bit and wait around in one spot. They should find us."

"So that gives us more time in the titty bar, right boss?" a new voice said, joining the conversation.

"Sure," Simeon answered, looking at the newcomer. "Billy, this is DeNiro." Yashida simply nodded at the anarch, and had to admit that the guy was, in fact, a dead ringer for a younger Robert De Niro. It was uncanny. DeNiro returned the nod, and then went to a vacant chair next to the stage, already sticking a dollar bill between his teeth.

"He's even younger than I am, isn't he?" Johnny asked.

"Embraced only a year and a half ago," Simeon answered with a nod. Both knew well that the desires of mortal life were slow to fade. While a vampire no longer physically craved sexual stimulation, the psychology of a mortal remained for a while, and it took years for the individual to realize that sex meant nothing anymore. As a result, the younger vampires were more often seen still trying to romantically seduce mortals. It was one of the things that kept them in public too much, and made them more vulnerable. Johnny often played the part of a younger vampire, just as he had with the two strippers. However, he was confident that any hunter or rival vampire he ran into in a strip club would be little match for him. He had studied at the feet of his clanmates for too long to be taken out easily.

**VII**

"So, we have a job and stuff, huh?" Erica asked excitedly, trying to divert K.T.'s attention away from the television. Erica had awakened even longer before K.T. than was normal, and had already scouted out the night's scene in Gatlinburg, only to return to find K.T. in the latter stages of awakening.

"Yes, we have a job," K.T. grumbled. He had no idea how idea how he was going to tell Erica that she was about to take part in a Sabbat siege, that he now expected her to walk amongst those he had tried so long to get her to forget.

"So what are we gonna be doin'?" Erica asked expectantly. "Do we get to fight werewolves?"

"No, Erica."

"Assassination job, right?" she guessed. "We get to whack some poor old bastard that pissed off the wrong guy."

"I'm not an assassin, Erica."

"Is there a Sabbat siege somewhere?" she countered. "Do we get to fight the Sabbat?"

"No," K.T. said emphatically. He knew this was a perfect point to bring up what the job was, but he still could not bear to present the truth to her.

"Wait a second, is this another one of those solo jobs you keep going on from time to time?" Erica asked. She knew that K.T.'s last 'no' had been spoken forcefully because he wanted the conversation to end. That was simply the best way to get Erica more interested, though. "Are you planning on ditching me? Here?"

"I wouldn't be that cruel," K.T. replied, continuing to face the television. "Spending time in this town is about the worst fate I think I could bestow on another person."

"It's not all that bad, really," Erica said. "I mean, it's really romantic and stuff."

"What the hell are you talking about?" the Gangrel asked. The only thing he had seen as the pair had ridden into the town was an over-sized, Southern tourist trap. It turned his stomach in almost every way.

"Well, there's lots of nice restaurants," Erica said.

"We don't eat," K.T. said instantly, hoping his interruption would end the conversation immediately.

"No, we don't," Erica agreed. "There are also all these really nice little wedding chapels. They're so cute."

"We don't get married, either," K.T. said, fearing where Erica might be headed.

"Are you sure about that?" Erica asked. "I've heard of kindred that were married."

"Damn, it's gonna start raining in a little bit," K.T. said, doing his best to change the topic. He gazed intently at the small TV screen, as if his life depended on what Jeanetta Jones, a meteorologist at the Weather Channel, said next.

"Fine, ignore me," Erica said, changing her demeanor into her famous pout. Rarely had K.T. ever been able to keep his attention off her when she used that face. "I'll just sit here and wait until you figure I'm worthy of speaking to."

"We're going to New Orleans," K.T. said, glad that the earlier line of discussion had been dropped.

"Yes!" Erica shouted. She opened her purse, pulled out a pocket planner, and started going through the pages. "It's only, like, a little less than a month before Mardi Gras. You think we'll be in town long enough to enjoy the fun?"

"I sure as hell hope not," K.T. replied.

"This is, like, the perfect job, isn't it?" Erica asked with a smile.

"Not this time it's not," K.T. mumbled. He had spoken with the hope that Erica would hear him and ask him what he meant. He was finally ready to broach the topic of a Sabbat siege. It was certainly preferable to hearing her plan to get wild and crazy during Mardi Gras. Unfortunately for the Gangrel, the Ventrue either did not hear him, or instead chose to ignore him.

"How do you find out about these jobs, anyway?" Erica asked. "It's not like you advertise at all, what with us being on the run from the Sabbat and everything. What, do you have an office you call into once in awhile or something?"

"I read the paper," K.T. answered, only telling half the truth. "If you look in the classifieds of the New York Times and Washington Post, you usually see the advertisements for mercenaries. They're usually done in a specific way, with code words for certain types of jobs." K.T. deliberately omitted the fact, for now, that people in very high places had selected him for the job, and that he had little choice in the matter. This was, in fact, not a job he had even gotten from the classifieds at all.

"So this was in the paper?" Erica asked.

"Sort of," K.T. lied.

"What do you mean, sort of?"

"I was, more or less, requested," K.T. replied. "Certain people knew exactly who I am and asked if I was interested. I wasn't but we really need the money." Again the Gangrel lied. He had over five million dollars tucked away in over thirty bank accounts, but he had no intention of letting his companion know that. The modicum of respect for his credit cards that he had been able to derive would disappear in a heartbeat if Erica discovered K.T. was a millionaire.

"So what's the job?"

"I'll tell you when we get there," K.T. answered, once again deciding that he was unable to tell her the whole story. He was afraid that if Erica knew she was rushing into a Sabbat siege, that she would never go. He wanted her nearby, to keep her safe.

"All right," Erica said. "So you think we can look around the town one last time before we head out to New Orleans?"

"Sure," K.T. answered, reaching for his duster and his Ruger Redhawk. He was on his feet and almost at the door when he suddenly stopped and looked back at the Ventrue. "Wait."

"What is it?" Erica suddenly felt uneasy. Something in K.T.'s voce sounded different, almost nervous. She was starting to get a very bad feeling.

"I don't think I should keep this from you," K.T. said, flipping once again on the issue of telling her about the assignment. "The job is a Sabbat siege."

"You said before it wasn't a siege," Erica said, her tone heavily accusatory. "You lied to me. I can't believe you lied, and about something so stupid. If you'll lie about that, then what the hell else are you keeping from me?" Erica let her mouth carry on, asking the question that she had kept to herself for so long. She had always felt that K.T. kept secrets from her. Sometimes, that was okay. She knew it was possible for someone to keep very personal things from the past to himself. For example, Erica knew that K.T. had been married as a mortal, but she never bothered him about it. She knew it was something he preferred to keep to himself. However, her suspicions had always been about something more. It went all the way back to their flight from New York. Since then, K.T. had seemed subtly different, and had always appeared to be keeping things from her. Now she wanted to let him know that she knew there was more going on that he never shared with her.

"I didn't lie before," K.T. answered.

"Yes you did."

"No, actually, I didn't."

A long silence followed as Erica stared at her companion, her eyes darting from one side to the other. K.T. knew she was thinking, and could only guess that she was replaying the conversation in her head, looking for whatever it was that she had missed. After a moment, he skin grew noticeably paler, and K.T. was certain she had figured it all out on her own.

"No," she gasped. "You wouldn't do it. Not after everything they did to us. To me."

"We need the money," K.T. repeated, lying again.

"We can get it somewhere else. We don't have to help the Sabbat."

"The Sabbat pays very well," K.T. answered, omitting the obvious fact that in this given situation, the Camarilla would likely pay far better.

"I'm sure it does, but we don't need the money that badly," Erica stated evenly. "Do we?"

"I've already met with the bishop," K.T. explained. "He knew all about you, and apparently it's not a problem."

"Oh, and I guess I'm really gonna trust him," Erica retorted sarcastically. "Because after all, Sabbat bishops never lie. Just like Camarilla princes."

"We're not having this discussion," K.T. answered. "I thought you should know. If you don't want to go to New Orleans, I won't make you. I'll give you some money, and you can go to Disney or something."

"Disney?"

"The entire Disney company is chock full of Ventrue," K.T. answered. "Disney World would probably be the safest place for you. You can bet your ass no Sabbat hunting parties would get in there."

"Disney is run by the Ventrue?" Erica asked, seemingly unable to get past that particular nugget of information. K.T. only nodded. "Well, I guess that explains Eisner."

K.T. smiled, comforted at his companion's ability to crack jokes at even the most tense of moments. "You really don't have to go."

"I'm not leaving you alone in a Sabbat siege," Erica said. "I've never been in one, but I've heard lots of bedtime stories. You'll need me to watch your back."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"But there is one condition." Erica crossed her arms across her chest and displayed a stern look on her face. K.T. knew the look well, and was certain that whatever it was Erica was going to say would not be open to debate. He would have to give in on something.

"And that is?" K.T. asked, though he was afraid to hear what kind of contingency the Ventrue antitribu would come up with.

"You have to teach me how to read those classified ads," Erica answered with a smile, dropping her stern facade as quickly as she had created it. "I mean, what if you get killed, and I need a way of supporting myself? That could come in handy."

"We'll see," K.T. replied. "You'll also need that," K.T. added, pointing to the briefcase that the bishop had given him.

"What is it?" Erica asked suspiciously, knowing that such a nice case was not something K.T. was likely to have ever bought.

"It's stuff you'll need to conceal your identity," the Gangrel said. He had already looked through the case, and found that all of the basics were included – driver's license, passport, Tulane college I.D., and even a credit card. The pictures were obvious fakes, showing Erica with red hair. That, K.T. presumed, was the reason for the red hair dye that had also been included, though he could not for the life of him figure out how Roi had gotten pictures of Erica. Of course, each night Erica's body would regenerate itself to the same state it had been in when it had been embraced, and that meant that she would have to dye her hair each evening before going out. _At last there will be something to keep the early-bird busy while I'm still waking up,_ the mercenary thought happily. _Although I doubt she'll be pleased with the inconvenience._

"My name is Marla Flaherty?" Erica asked, unable to hide her disgust. "What the hell kind of name is that? It sounds like a fat girl's name."

"Hopefully, it's a name that'll help keep you alive," K.T. answered evenly. "While the bishop has no problem with you, he can't guarantee that none of his people will feel otherwise. He thought it best if you maintained as low a profile as possible. That means using a different name."

"Is this a real credit card, or is it just for show?"

"It's probably real," K.T. said. "It's a good bet the numbers are just duplicated from someone else's account. It probably won't be good for any more than a few weeks after the first time you use it."

"So let me guess, I should save it only for emergencies," Erica said.

"That's right," K.T. replied. "But we're getting paid for this, so I'll throw some petty cash your way. I don't think you'll be hurting for money."

"Great," Erica said with a smile. "You know, it just so happens that I was looking over a map earlier this evening, and noticed New Orleans on it. It should take about eight to ten hours to get there."

"Which means that if we leave now, it'll still probably take us two nights to make the trip," K.T. concluded, knowing what his companion was about to ask.

"Right, so if we're gonna need two nights anyway, we might as well stay here for a couple of hours and have some fun. Maybe do a little shopping or something. You could give me some money right now, and that way I can have you watching over me as I spend it. You could, you know, try to make me a more responsible shopper or something."

"Just what I needed," K.T. grumbled. "Why couldn't the job have been in Knoxville? It's just a mercifully short trip up the road."

**VIII**

"I thought I told you and your punks not to come around here anymore," the obvious leader of the gang said to Simeon. "You've gotta be the sorriest sons of bitches I've ever met. Most anyone else would have learned by now."

"We have you outnumbered this time," Simeon answered. "So why don't you just get your ass in motion and never come back around here."

Johnny Yashida stifled a smile, knowing that there was likely a lot more going on than he could easily see. The tough talk that usually preceded an anarch rumble was nothing new for the Telemon. He had spent a lot of time around anarchs, making friends that he could use as sources of information later. Tonight, he knew, was a different situation entirely. Simeon had told him about the gang calling itself Damage Control, and he felt strongly that this was actually a Sabbat pack posing as an anarch gang so that it could more easily infiltrate the city. They were most likely all Brujah and Ventrue antitribu. It would be too large a chance to send in any Lasombra or Tzimisce, the two clans that guided the Sabbat. Either clan's blood might be detected by local Tremere thaumaturgy. The blood magic of the warlocks was something the Sabbat did not completely understand, and thus never took any chances with. As long as they were all the same bloodlines as most anarchs would be, Johnny did not feel overly threatened. He still knew, however, that he would need to keep his guard up more than he would with an anarch gang. Sabbat soldiers could be very dangerous.

"I can count, you know," the other vampire spat back. Johnny assumed this one was Riddick, the one that Simeon pegged as the leader, and who was apparently a very dangerous man. "You still don't even have us two to one. What the hell makes you think you have any more chance tonight than you had any of the times we sent you all crawling home in a puddle of your own blood?"

Yashida stole a glance toward Uiko. He was more nervous about her than he was about anything else. She was very young and had not yet been in combat with kindred. True, she had been in countless battles as a mortal, and had skills that were so well-honed they would make up for some of the lack in her vampiric abilities, but it was still comparable to taking a high school quarterback, throwing him into an NFL game, and expecting results. She was not ready, and Johnny knew it. He only hoped that she would survive and take some valuable lesson from the experience. To her credit, he noted, she seemed intense but not nervous. The training and experience from her mortal days was shining through.

"You really gonna make us beat you down?" Simeon asked. "I'll be gracious and let you tuck your tail between your legs and just race off."

"That'll be the day," Riddick growled. "I'd really like to see you try." In a flash, all five of the opposing vampires burst into action, leaping into the sudden fray. Before any of the members of Damage Incorporated could react, DeNiro was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood, trying desperately to collect his own entrails and stuff them back into his belly. A steadily advancing Riddick was forcing Simeon back, and a second member of the gang was keeping Michelle and Uiko thoroughly busy. That left three to take on Cabbage Patch, Ghetto Blaster, and Barb, and Damage, Inc. was not doing well. Johnny stood back, taking a few moments to analyze his opponents, trying to gauge the likelihood of them being Sabbat. In only a matter of seconds, he had concluded that they were. Despite the fact that they were vampires, they fought more like a unit than most kindred ever did, certainly more so than the average anarch gang. He would simply need to find out for certain.

As Barb was being forced down, Johnny attached a silencer to his Walther PPK and fired a round in one of the opposing gang's vampires. The man looked up and growled, and then lunged at Yashida. The Telemon sidestepped just enough to barely get out of the way, making certain he was holding back. He knew it was possible that the Sabbat might be sizing up anarch gangs just as he was, making certain that no Camarilla-employed mercenaries were trying to work themselves into the community. After the initial miss, the Sabbat vampire gathered himself and swung again, this time with a switchblade. Johnny dodged again, and did his best to feign fear. Then he kicked the Sabbat in the knee and ran away, knowing that he would be pursued. Few Sabbat vampires would pass up the chance to beat on a weaker foe.

Johnny ran a few blocks, until he was certain that only one of his enemies was following, and then used his blood to silence his movements. He stopped abruptly, turned, and fired two completely muffled bursts of 9mm fire from his Beretta 93R. The Sabbat fell to the ground in mid-stride, scraping off a few layers of skin as he slid across the raw pavement.

"Now that we're alone, we're gonna talk," Johnny said, lifting the shroud of silence that he had dropped over his person.

"Not likely," the Sabbat sneered, already jumping back to his feet. The bullet-wounds had been almost completely healed, and the vampire was attempting to finish off the anarch upstart that he had chased down.

Yashida, however, was having none of it. He grappled the Sabbat soldier's next strike, and hip-tossed the vampire to the ground. With a slight pivot of his body weight, he snapped the opposing vampire's arm at the wrist, and a quick kick crushed three of the ribs on the left side. With a wave of his hand, Yashida called forth thin, wispy tentacles of darkness from the shadows on either side of the sidewalk. His opponent saw them and immediately went pale. Yashida was employing the kindred art of obtenebration, a discipline rarely found outside of the Lasombra clan.

"Who are you?" the terrified Sabbat soldier asked.

"Irrelevant," Johnny answered. "How many packs are in the siege, and how many Sabbat are in each pack?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the pinned vampire answered evenly, doing his best to hide the obvious fact that he was lying.

"Fine," Yashida answered.

"See, you believe me," the Sabbat murmured. Johnny could tell that his opponent was trying to dominate him. It was an amusing attempt, he thought with a smile. No vampire could dominate another of his kind that had more potent blood. This particular captive was completely unaware of two vital facts – that Yashida was a member of clan Telemon, and that clan Telemon had experienced unheard-of luck in stumbling upon high generation victims that provided a means for the bloodline to increase the strength of its members.

"No, actually I don't believe you," Yashida answered after a moment. "If you think you're going to be able to dominate me to get out of this situation, you're sorely mistaken. I'm giving you this one chance to tell me what I want to know. If you don't, then I'm going to give you to my childe. She used to work for the Yakuza, and they have some very creative ways of finding out the information they want to know." Once again, the vampire's face went a shade paler.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said stoically.

"Oh well," Yashida answered. "I guess God hates a coward, anyhow." With a slight motion, he commanded the shadowy tentacles to contract, and within seconds the snapping of the Sabbat soldier's bones could be heard. Johnny knew he would be able to completely immobilize his adversary, and then take him back to their temporary headquarters. Unfortunately, it would fall to Uiko to get the desired information.

_To be continued……………………………………_


	3. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 2

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

**-----------------------------------------------------------**

CHAPTER 2

**I**

"Has our guest volunteered anything yet?" Yashida asked as he walked into the back room of the clan's house.

"Not yet," Uiko murmured. "If he doesn't start talking soon, I'm gonna get really nasty." The ninja made sure that her prisoner heard her. She could only imagine what was going through his head when he heard things could get worse. The captured Sabbat had already lost his right foot and eight of his fingers. Acid burns covered the left side of his face, and a small fire was kept burning a foot in front of him. Fire was what all kindred feared most, and the Telemon's captive was faced with it at all times.

"You've already had two full nights with him," Johnny said. "If you haven't gotten anything yet, you might just have to cut your losses. We'll need you back on the streets soon enough as it is."

"I know," Uiko replied. "He has until tomorrow's dawn, and then I'll stop being so goddamned nice. Has anyone been asking about him?"

"Simeon asked me where I ran off to, and I said this guy chased me into Audubon Park," Johnny answered. "I simply said I came out the other side, down by the zoo, and this guy was nowhere to be seen."

"So you said you lost him," Uiko surmised.

"Well, rumors have been floating around that a pack of garou has moved into the park," Johnny explained.

"There haven't been garou in this city in almost ten years," Uiko answered. "Even I know that. If there were garou anywhere near here, Cancer Alley wouldn't exist. The werewolves are far too devoted to their defense of nature to allow such large-scale pollution."

"I only said they were rumors," Johnny explained. "Maybe this'll help fuel them. Who knows? Who even cares?"

Uiko was about to answer when Johnny's cell-phone rang. A brief exchange followed, during which Yashida's face took on a definite worried look. "Shit," he mumbled as he stuck the phone back in his pocket. "I have to go." Without another word, Yashida walked out of the room, leaving Uiko to wonder what had shaken her sire.

Uiko had just about let her curiosity fade when Michelle opened the door to the room and walked in. "Do you know what's up with Johnny?" she asked, not bothering to mask her concern.

"He was fine until he got a phone call," Uiko replied. "As soon as he hung up, he bolted out. He didn't stay long enough to say much more than 'shit.' It must have been serious."

"Yeah," Michelle murmured.

"You should probably be leaving now," Uiko said evenly.

Michelle looked at Johnny's childe curiously, wondering what she could say in response to an obvious dismissal. "What?" was the only reply she could frame.

"I'm about to get back to work on our guest," Uiko explained. "You aren't gonna want to be around for this."

"I'm a big girl," Michelle said confidently. "I've seen shit that would give you nightmares for months."

"And what I'm about to do would give you nightmares for years," Uiko replied matter-of-factly. "Don't get me wrong, Michelle. You're good enough at what you do, but interrogation was something I was learning at the same time I was learning how to read. This comes naturally to me. It would only upset you."

"Fine," Michelle said, deciding not to pursue the conversation any further. The Gangrel convinced herself that she could handle seeing any torture Uiko was capable of inflicting, but she had little interest in arguing. All she wanted to do was find out what had rattled Johnny, and Uiko was obviously not going to share any information. The Gangrel walked out, finally leaving the ninja in privacy with her Sabbat prisoner.

"You'll never be able to hurt me enough to make me talk," he said bravely. "You might as well just kill me now and save yourself the time."

_Hurting you is not my plan,_ Uiko thought wickedly. _I'm going to break you, and I have no problem waiting._ "I think you misunderstand my role," the ninja replied, voicing her thoughts. "My role is not to hurt you."

"Oh, is that what you've not been trying to do?" the Sabbat soldier said venomously. "I thought you've been trying to make me hurt enough to offer anything to make you stop. It won't work."

_Perhaps not. Pain is only the first step, though. I've shown you I am willing to cut you apart piece by piece. I've shown you I have the will to disfigure you for life. Now comes false hope. Later I'll bring that crashing down around you, and after that, pain like you've never known._

"I'll admit, you seem to be more resistant to torture than I had been led to believe would be the case," Uiko said. _Too bad torture is not my plan – it is interrogation. It is breaking of wills. Torture is simply a tool, not an end unto itself._ "The Camarilla always said the Sabbat was weak." _Let's see how you like that._

"We're a lot stronger than anyone in the Camarilla knows," the Sabbat said.

"Yeah, I've heard it all before," Johnny's childe replied sarcastically. "The Sabbat is a brotherhood. You fight as one. Blah, blah, blah. I can't say I've been terribly impressed by Sabbat combat proficiency so far."

"The Sabbat will triumph in the end," the prisoner said stoically. "Like you said, we're a brotherhood. The vampires in the Camarilla constantly scheme against one another. We can always count on our packmates for assistance. We are never alone."

_Exactly where I wanted that little rant to end up,_ Uiko thought, congratulating herself. "But you _are_ alone," Uiko pointed out. "No one knows where you are. There will be no rescue attempt. There's not even one of your treasured brothers to share the pain with you. Face it, they're all probably out on the town, and you're all but forgotten."

"I doubt it," the Sabbat said. "The city is under siege. There's no time to be out on the town."

"So you say," Uiko responded evenly, silently admitting that her charge still had more resolve than she had expected. _I have to remember what I'm dealing with,_ she reminded herself. _My training was meant for dealing with mortals. Kindred are a completely different animal. This is going to take some time._

Michelle was just tuning into a hockey game when Johnny walked into the room, dressed once again in a formal black suit. "I need you to watch over everything," he instructed. "Don't let anyone leave."

"Mason and I are supposed to pick Brett up at the airport later," Michelle replied.

"Brett's arrival has been postponed," Johnny answered. "Stay inside, and get all of your weapons together."

"What's wrong?"

"The shooting started," Johnny replied. "Two Ventrue were gunned down just after dusk, and a Toreador gallery was set on fire. The place is still standing, but the damage is bad. The worst thing, though, is that the violence tonight is just the tip of the iceberg."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Michelle asked, already knowing she would not get an answer. She knew that something major had occurred, and that in keeping with his nature, Johnny would not discuss the details until he felt he had an angle on getting things under control. It was his way, Michelle knew. It was almost as if he felt that not speaking of a problem prevented it from becoming real, and as long as it was not completely real, he would be able to deal with it before things really got out of hand.

"So where are you going?"

"The primogen of the city are meeting in about ten minutes," Johnny responded with a quick glance at his watch.

"And when did you become a primogen?" Michelle asked sarcastically.

"Never," Yashida replied evenly. "But they're going to want to hear what I have to say. This is going to really suck."

"Be careful."

"Don't worry," Johnny said with a thin smile. "What's the worst thing that could possibly happen?"

**II**

"Ah, it's good to see you again, K.T.," Jacques said with a smile as he approached the Gangrel. "And you, too, Marla," he added, turning toward Erica. He knew that both of his mercenaries would appreciate the extra flourish, which would give the Ventrue's false identity some extra credibility. "Let me introduce you to the others." The bishop led K.T. and Erica through the lobby of the Palace Theatre, a massive, twenty-screen movie multiplex, while three other kindred followed behind the bishop and his two guests. The contact at the monster truck rally had revealed that Jacques had chosen this theater as the meeting place for his people, a staging area where he could introduce his mercenaries to his packs and distribute assignments for the night. Of course, he had already used one of his packs to start the fighting, but the rest of his people would not see much action until the end of the night.

"Are we actually going to see a movie, or are we just meeting here?" Erica asked. K.T. rolled his eyes, a gesture that seemed to go unnoticed by the others, but he remained silent.

"I got tickets to Scream 3," Jacques replied. "It seemed an appropriate enough title, and a few of the younger people in our packs requested it."

"Great," K.T. muttered. The Gangrel had to admit that the first Scream film had been clever, but the second had lacked much of its predecessor's edge. From what he had already heard about the third installment in the trilogy, the writing had become stale and predictable.

"You of course remember Vlad?" Jacques asked, turning once more to K.T., and indicating the large man that had accompanied the bishop in Tennessee. The Gangrel simply nodded in response. "This is Riddick and Selano," Jacques added, gesturing toward the other two men that had come out with him. "They are two of my pack leaders. The third is Chang. He'll be joining us a little later, after he and his group take care of a little business."

"Fine," K.T. muttered. He looked over each of the Sabbat pack leaders, trying to figure out the caliber of people he would be working with. Riddick was a large man, almost equal in size to the Templar that strode along next to the bishop. _He looks like he'll be able to take care of himself in a fight,_ K.T. thought. By contrast, however, was Selano. The second pack leader was a small man, standing about 5'10" and possessing a frame that K.T. would dare to classify as frail. He had the dark skin of a Spaniard, and features to match. The man had a faintly regal appearance, and K.T. decided that he had met the brains of the bunch within the packs. _Likely he's Lasombra, and second only to Jacques in the line of command. Very interesting._

The small group of vampires walked into the theater, a large room filled with stadium-style seating and possessing a massive screen on the front wall. The bishop immediately led K.T. and Erica up the stairs and into a row with a motley assortment of men and women, which K.T. assumed was the membership of the two packs that were already present. Quick introductions were made just as the lights dimmed, and Erica sat back to relax and watch the show while K.T. increased his guard.

The Gangrel mercenary could hardly believe that Erica seemed so comfortable. She had hesitated to come into the city after making the trip, and had almost balked again as K.T. arrived at the multiplex. Now she sat in her seat, completely engrossed in a preview for Titan A.E. She seemed completely uninterested in the fact that she was surrounded by the Sabbat, a faction of vampires that had hunted her halfway across the country for months after tearing New York City apart trying to extinguish her. K.T. could hardly wait to get away from his comrades in arms and find out what could possibly be going on in Erica's head.

**III**

Johnny Yashida strode into Gregory Ash's home, wondering what would be waiting for him. Just inside the door, a large number of armed men stood waiting. Yashida guessed they were the bodyguards that the primogen all brought to the meeting. He noticed they were all looking closely at him, most likely pondering who he was and what threat he might pose. One of the men broke away from the group and walked over.

"Mr. Yashida," the man said graciously. "Southpaw informed me that you were expected. The meeting has already begun."

"I suppose you'll be wanting my weapons," Johnny commented, making certain each and every one of the guards had heard that he was more than willing to comply with any security requirements. The last thing he needed was to be attacked by a dozen armed vampires that considered him a potential assassin. The man that had greeted him nodded, and Johnny slowly produced two Beretta 93 R's from within his black Armani sport jacket. He handed them to a second guard that had approached. With a flick of his wrist he produced a tanto blade in his right hand, and a moment later had removed a Walther PPK from the small of his back.

"That's it?" the first man asked sarcastically. Yashida patted himself down, as if he was double-checking that there were no weapons he had overlooked, and then nodded. Then the second guard also frisked the Telemon, making certain that no weapons were smuggled in. After a thorough search, he nodded. "Very well then, Mr. Yashida. You may follow me."

The first guard led Johnny down the hall, past the meeting room where he had introduced himself to the regent, and to a large, intricately carved oak door. The guard opened that and led the Telemon down a flight of stairs into a luxuriously furnished basement – a fixture that was uncommon in a city that was built eight feet below sea level. A dimly lit hallway led to another door, this one ironbound oak. The guard knocked three times, then once again after a second's wait. The door opened, and Johnny was ushered into a large room dominated by a large, oval oak table. Seated around the table were five men and two women. Yashida noticed immediately that Southpaw, the only one he knew, was seated at the head of the table.

"I am glad you could join us on such short notice, Mr. Yashida," Southpaw said immediately. Johnny noticed the Ventrue was flustered and guessed that Southpaw had been immediately beset by the primogen. Being inexperienced in dealing with self-involved elders, he had quickly reached the end of his rope.

"Who the hell is this?" one of the men at the table asked immediately, directing an accusing stare in Southpaw's direction. "As far as I know, he is not a primogen. Therefore, he has no right to be here."

"He is here at my request," Southpaw shot back. Despite his quick answer, Johnny noted that Southpaw's voice contained doubt, as if he had said the first thing that came to mind, hoping it would be a sufficient response.

"I am Jonathan Yashida, an emissary from the Telemon clan," Johnny offered, hoping he could take the heat off of Southpaw long enough for the neonate to regain some semblance of composure. While Johnny was himself less than a decade older than Southpaw was, he had obviously had more experience dealing with primogen and princes. While the rest of his clan could stand on the field of battle as comfortably as any vampire their age, Yashida had fallen into the niche of ambassador and spy. The role had grown on him considerably over the years. He would not be so easily rattled.

"Telemon?" the same man at the table asked. Yashida noted that two of the people at the table, one of them obviously a Nosferatu woman, did not seem surprised at his introduction. "What the hell is Telemon?"

"Telemon is the name of my clan," Yashida replied evenly. "I assume you have led a sheltered life, and have therefore not heard of us." His remark had the desired effect of setting his verbal attacker back on his heels, taking a moment to select an appropriately scathing reply. Johnny did not give him the opportunity. "My clan was asked here by the regent, who is now no longer among us. The Telemon have little interest in your politics, and only wish to know what the future holds for our situation. I expect the lot of you to come to a conclusion quickly, and not impede my clan's efforts."

"What efforts?" the man asked.

"They're here as mercenaries, Du Lenne," another man offered. Yashida noticed this man was the second of the two that had not been surprised at his introduction. "They have a great deal of experience in dealing with Sabbat sieges and were hired by Ash to fill that role here in New Orleans."

"Sabbat siege?" Du Lenne asked. "What are you talking about? There's no siege."

"Leave it to the Toreador to be so oblivious to the world," the Nosferatu woman chimed in. "I can't believe you're the only one that doesn't know."

"You all knew?" the Toreador primogen asked. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" No one answered, but Yashida cracked a smile. Du Lenne caught the grin, and immediately called the Telemon to task. "And what do you think you're smiling at?"

"You amuse me," Yashida answered frankly. The Telemon had ceased to care whether or not he offended the primogen. The news that the regent had been killed earlier that evening clearly put he leadership of the city up for grabs. Without a clear consensus, he would advise that the Telemon leave the city. He had nothing to gain by kissing anyone's ass.

"I amuse you?" Du Lenne asked, obviously shocked at the Telemon's candor.

"I think you amuse us all," the second man at the table answered. "As always, my clan knew what was going on." He turned to Yashida and stood. "I am Carlos Martin, of Clan Tremere," he stated smoothly. That much Johnny had already guessed. The conservatively cut black silk suit had been a dead giveaway. "Ash had come to me to seek my opinion on the hiring of your clan's mercenaries. I felt, and still feel, that the Sabbat threat is indeed great. I was fully in support of the proposition, and will continue to hold that view."

"We only work for princes," Johnny replied. "It was a touchy situation with us working for a regent. There's no way in hell we'll continue past Wednesday unless you all elect someone to lead you. Not that it's such a bad idea anyway, with a Sabbat siege already begun. A central authority is crucial to your success."

"I couldn't agree more," Martin said.

"I bet," Du Lenne replied. "It wouldn't surprise me at all if you warlocks killed Ash yourselves, knowing the Sabbat would be blamed. Then you could use the siege as an excuse to consolidate power under yourself."

"An excellent plan," Martin said with a nod. "It's unfortunate I did not actually choose that course of action. It's funny, but I had rather thought you were responsible for Ash's untimely demise."

"That's what we all thought, too," a new voice said. A woman in leather pants and a leather biker jacket kicked her heels up onto the table as she spoke, spreading her lips into a toothy grin that Johnny found reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. _That would be the Brujah,_ he noted silently.

"And who are you?" Du Lenne asked the Brujah woman.

"My name's Sandy," the woman replied. She bobbed her head as she spoke, allowing her long blonde curls to fall over her blue eyes and slender face. "My clan elected me to sit in tonight. I had no idea it would be this exciting."

Johnny nodded his head in understanding. He knew that in many cities, the Brujah would rarely voice their opinions in kindred politics. They had little use in order, and sought only to make the elders look incompetent. Only in times of crisis, or when they wished to create one, would a Brujah commonly show up at a meeting of primogen. With the regent dead, the rabble had apparently decided there was need for a representative of the Brujah clan at the meeting. Sandy likely had little weight with her own clanmates, and had only been selected to represent them for this one meeting. It was not like the Brujah to ever have a permanent leader in a city.

"Exciting?" another man asked. "I hardly think exciting is the word. I would choose 'hell-raising.' It much better suits the mood."

"Right on," Sandy agreed.

"My name is Pierre Esteban O'Reilly," the man said, extending his hand toward Yashida. "But most people just call me Richie. I am the head of the Malkavians, and I am at your service."

Yashida tried to hide his discomfort at meeting the head of the Malkavian clan. As a whole, the Malkavians were considered to be insane. Indeed, virtually every member of the clan had some psychological disorder or another. They were often hard to deal with, but were certainly useful in a fight. They could take a bullet as well as anyone else.

"Pleased to meet you," Johnny lied. "It's been some time since I've had any dealings with a member of your clan."

"And most likely you would have preferred to keep it that way," O'Reilly responded. "Don't fret too much, young one. I'm not any less right in the head than anyone else at this table."

"That's not saying a whole hell of a lot, Richie," the Nosferatu woman shot back. Richie smiled in response, but refrained from any other verbal replies.

"You said you would be with us until Wednesday?" Martin asked.

"My clan was contracted to work for a week at a time," Johnny explained. "We started on Thursday, and will stay through Wednesday, as we were prepaid until that day. The Telemon will honor their contract. However, what happens after that time is pretty much up to the lot of you. This is one of only two sieges in North America currently in the combat stage, and we're already involved in the other one, too. It's not like there's really any other pressing engagement for us to leave in favor of. Here is where we would like to stay. However, we follow rules. As I said earlier, we only work for princes."

"To avoid creating enemies," O'Reilly concluded. He looked over toward Du Lenne, as if he had made the comment in order to explain the situation to the Toreador primogen. Du Lenne, for his part, ignored the expression, instead remaining focused on Yashida.

"Exactly," Johnny confirmed. "We all know full well the schemes that are constantly going on behind the scenes. We only work for princes, and never take part in an internal power struggle. My superiors are strong believers in the philosophy that we should respect the territory of others."

"What if the Conclave were to hire you?" O'Reilly asked.

"What?" Johnny asked, unsure of how to respond. The idea had never occurred to him. He did not know how Siras would want him to reply.

"While, as you have said, it would be in our best interests to elect a new prince post haste, there are certain problems that make the decision an uncomfortable one," O'Reilly answered. "I doubt any consensus could be reached until we discover who assassinated Ash. Even in the face of a Sabbat siege, you can only expect us to agree up to a certain point. If we were all to agree, in your presence, to hire your clan to aid us, would that be acceptable? We would all split the cost, and there would be no question of causing internal strife."

"I'm not agreeing," Johnny answered hesitantly, "but there are some conditions that would have to be met before I would bring the proposal back to my superiors." Yashida knew he was betraying his unease and inexperience, but he knew it was better to demonstrate inexperience and get the job right than to feign certainty and screw up.

"What exactly would you need?" Martin asked.

"You would all need to vote right now, in front of me," Yashida answered immediately. "Any vote would have to be unanimous. If a single clan is uncomfortable with a Telemon presence, we will leave at sundown on Thursday."

"And if we wish you to leave at before Thursday?" Du Lenne asked.

"Then elect a prince to order us to leave," Johnny answered evenly, once again demonstrating an unnerving confidence for one so young. "We made a contract with a prince. None of you has the authority to nullify it. If you elect someone who wants us to leave, we will gladly do so. However, we will not leave until a prince orders it. That would set a very dangerous precedent."

"How so?" Du Lenne asked, calling the Telemon to task. The Toreador primogen noticed Martin shake his head in disappointment, and then turned to Yashida for what Du Lenne had already decided was an obvious answer he had overlooked.

"Hiring mercenaries is not always a popular course of action," Yashida said, answering the Toreador. He had already reached the conclusion that Du Lenne was likely an artist of incredible skill. After all, he would have to be in order to hold a position of such stature within the clan while not having a shred of political savvy. "If we leave as soon as the prince is killed and one of the primogen requests it, then in the future any primogen that is uncomfortable with the decision to hire us will simply aim to kill the prince, and then have us leave. Also, the Sabbat might target the prince immediately, counting on one of the primogen to call for us to withdraw. In either case, the prince is put into jeopardy by hiring us. I don't want princes to shy away from hiring us because doing so would place a bulls-eye on their foreheads. If the decision to kill the prince was motivated by the desire to have the Telemon leave, then the assassin is out of luck. We're not going anywhere until our contract is up."

"Well said," O'Reilly chimed in. "However, you have not yet answered my question. Would you work for the Conclave, if we were to fulfill your requirements?"

"I wish I could answer that question," Yashida said smoothly, having taken a few moments to think the matter through more fully. He had decided how to answer the question properly. "However, my clan is structured in a rather strict hierarchy." He shot a sideways glance toward Martin, the Tremere primogen, whom he was confident would understand the benefits of such order. "What I would say in regards to this matter is irrelevant. You are asking a question pertaining to the overall procedures of hiring our mercenaries. Such an important matter must be left to officers higher in the chain of command than I am myself. As I said, I would like to see a show of hands, and nothing more. I do not believe the proposal has any merit unless there is a unanimous vote."

"Then let's vote," O'Reilly stated. "If you favor hiring mercenaries to help oppose the Sabbat, raise your hand."

"I think there are some things we need to consider," Du Lenne put in, immediately interrupting the vote. "How can we trust them? For all we know, they assassinated the prince themselves."

"They have not," the Nosferatu answered immediately. "My clan has watched the mercenaries since they arrived in the city. With the exception of Mr. Yashida's meeting with Ash for purposes of presentation, none of the Telemon have been near Ash's home."

"Oh, that's just great, Calaban," Du Lenne replied sarcastically. "How are we to know that you're not now covering up the Telemons' crime for them? Perhaps you were in on it."

"Is it because you believe the Nosferatu wish an open, violent war with the Sabbat?" Calaban replied venomously. "We all know that the longer and more out of hand this siege gets, the greater the likelihood the humans will notice. If they discover the kindred, we will be hunted again, as we were during the Inquisition. Unlike you, the Nosferatu cannot hide. Our appearance always betrays our nature. We support the Telemon presence because they have fought the Sabbat before. They are brutal, but discreet."

"Clan Tremere also supports Telemon involvement," Martin added.

"You can't be serious," Du Lenne said.

"Every Telemon on the street means another target for the Sabbat," Yashida stated plainly. "Every extra target means there is a decreased likelihood of Tremere casualties. Mr. Martin is simply a rather practical man."

"Indeed," Martin replied with a nod, not appearing to mind that he was unveiled as being coldly calculating in his decision. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy the image a great deal.

"As our former Ventrue prince supported the Telemon, so do I," Southpaw stated. "The Ventrue clan votes in favor of retaining the mercenaries."

"Well, given the way Mr. Yashida so frankly explained the situation, I'd have to be crazy not to vote for the Telemon to stay," O'Reilly quipped. He smiled broadly, pleased with his little joke, and looked toward Sandy.

"What?" the Brujah asked. She looked around the table, revealing that she had been completely lost in thought, and had no idea what was going on.

"Do you vote to keep the Telemon in the city?" O'Reilly prompted.

"The who?" Sandy asked.

"My clan," Johnny explained, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.

"I don't know," Sandy replied. "I mean, you look like a puss, if you know what I mean. You're supposed to help us fight the Sabbat? You don't look so bad to me."

"Then perhaps you'd like to meet down by the Little Dome tonight for a demonstration of just what I can do," Yashida said coldly, never taking his gaze from the young Brujah's eyes. He maintained the stare, knowing all too well how uncomfortable it would make her.

"All right, I'm fine with him staying," Sandy answered.

"Now that she's voted, I want her memory of this meeting altered," Yashida stated.

"What?" Sandy shouted, standing from her chair.

"I lack the strength of some of my clanmates, and I run with some of the anarch gangs," Yashida explained. "I don't want my cover blown. The Sabbat might think me a valuable prize."

"Like I give a shit," Sandy shot back.

"This is a condition of my staying," Johnny added.

"It will be done," Martin answered.

"What?" Sandy shouted again. "You can't do that."

"Shut the hell up, or we'll simply kill you rather than alter your memory," Calaban spat angrily. In the face of the Nosferatu's fury, Sandy immediately sat down silently, afraid that a worse fate could be visited upon her.

"I can see the way this is going, and the Toreador reluctantly support the decision to hire the Telemon," Du Lenne said.

"As do the Gangrel," a middle-aged man added. Yashida looked at the Gangrel primogen and nodded his head, knowing that Michelle had already met with the man to discuss the role of the Telemon in the city. The primogen, a man known as Jasper, was well known for his hatred of the Sabbat. He was only too willing to have allies in his quest to add to his list of kills.

"Then you have your unanimous vote, Mr. Yashida," O'Reilly said with a flourish of his hand. "Before you leave us, is there anything else that you feel we should know about your services?"

"Yes, it's funny you should ask," Johnny replied. He could only hope that the primogen would react as favorably to the terms of employment as Ash had.

**IV**

"So what were you so happy about in the theater?" K.T. asked as he got off his Indian bike and looked around, making certain he had not been followed. The Block-Heller House Bed and Breakfast, which he and Erica had booked as their sanctuary, made a great hideaway. No one would look for a couple of kindred mercenaries there, and K.T. had been careful to keep it that way.

"What do you mean?" Erica asked in response. "I was just being normal."

"You were on the verge of panic when we entered the city, afraid of being anywhere near the Sabbat," K.T. explained. "Then when we get inside the theater, you're all normal, like you said. It seemed a little weird."

"The Sabbat is family, K.T.," Erica said. "If I had acted uncomfortable, they would have noticed."

"We're mercenaries," K.T. replied. "You don't have to act like Sabbat."

"Mercenaries are a tough lot, too," Erica pointed out. "If I had acted nervous, they would have been suspicious."

"What are you doing?" K.T. asked after a couple of moments.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not being yourself," K.T. said. "You were scared, and now you're overcompensating."

"No I'm not," Erica snapped back. "I'm not scared."

"So you're perfectly comfortable being around the Sabbat?"

"I wouldn't say that," Erica replied, "but I'm not scared like I used to be. I ran with the Sabbat for a long time. They don't frighten me."

"The Sabbat elders would like to have your head on a platter," K.T. reminded his lover.

"But the Sabbat here don't know that," Erica responded. "As far as they're concerned, I'm just Marla Flaherty. They have no idea I'm Erica Blackwell, and they probably wouldn't even recognize the name if they really knew who I was, anyway."

"You willing to risk your life on that assumption?"

"I think you're the one who's scared," Erica said evenly.

"Of course I am," K.T. answered. "Fear is a good thing, Erica. It reminds us when something we're doing is stupid enough to get us hurt or killed. You should listen to your fear. Don't ever let it control you, but don't ignore it, either."

"I'm sorry, K.T., but I'm not afraid anymore," Erica said. "It's strange, but it almost feels as if I've come home, in a way."

"That's what I'm afraid of," K.T. muttered. "I have to get some air. Why don't you go upstairs and go through the papers that Roi gave us? I'll be back in a little while."

"How come I have to do the paperwork?" Erica asked.

"Being a mercenary isn't always about shooting people and blowing shit up," K.T. reminded his friend. "If we don't make sure of what we're doing, we could get killed. The papers have information on the target we're hitting before dawn. I want to make sure there are no surprises."

"Then maybe you should do it yourself," Erica suggested.

"No, I have full confidence in you," K.T. replied. He knew saying that would make Erica proud, as if she had finally begun to earn not only K.T.'s love, but also his respect. "I'm sure you can handle it."

"I'll do my best," Erica answered, her face brightening with K.T.'s compliment, just as he had hoped. "I'll have everything planned out by the time you get back."

"Thanks," K.T. replied. "I won't be gone long." He noticed Erica say something, but could not hear her as he started the engine to his bike. Without another glance at his companion, he pulled out onto Carrollton, turned around across the streetcar tracks, and raced off toward River Road.

_Comfortable with the Sabbat again,_ he thought to himself, feeling his blood begin to boil within his veins. He could hardly believe it. It seemed as though Erica had come full circle. When they had met, she had been a tough Sabbat punk. He smiled as he remembered the look on her face when he first met her. The first thing he had noticed was how beautiful she was. Of course, he had been looking at her face down the barrel of his Ruger, and had been completely prepared to blow her head off, although he would have regretted it. At least a little bit. She had been so brave, though so stupid. Erica had lived a sheltered life, both as a mortal, with her parents protecting her, and as a vampire, with her Sabbat pack watching her back. She had almost gotten herself killed countless times during the first week she and K.T. had known each other.

K.T. smiled as he remembered it all. In some ways, she had come so far. He could, for instance, trust her to look over blueprints of a building and depend on her to formulate a proper plan of attack. However, he could still not trust her around the Sabbat. _How could she not be afraid?_ he asked himself. _After everything that's happened._ He lost his train of thought for a moment as he raced around a truck, weaving back onto his side of the road a split second before he became one with the grill of an oversized SUV, but then quickly arrived back at the same point in his reverie.

_It's the blood,_ he reminded himself. As a member of the Sabbat, Erica had partaken in the ceremony of the Vaulderie. She had formed a blood bond with her packmates, a bond that could not easily be broken. It would not be much longer, he knew, before she would finally break completely free of the Sabbat's hold on her, but that was not his greatest concern. K.T. and Erica had been sharing blood ever since that week in New York. While Erica had only slowly become attached to K.T., leaving behind her pre-existing bond to the Sabbat, K.T. had become totally and irrevocably bonded to her after sharing blood only three times. To a certain extent, she had more power in the relationship than he did, and knowing that made K.T.'s stomach churn. It was possible, though admittedly unlikely, that she could shake off her almost complete devotion to K.T. and return to the fold of the Sabbat. If that were to occur, he might possibly want to follow her. He knew it, and hated it, but also had to admit that he could not avoid it. The blood bond was not something that could be overcome by rational thought. _I can't believe I got myself into this situation. I should never have even allowed her to come into a city under siege, especially not working for the Sabbat._ He knew the blood bond was responsible for his error in judgment. Had he not been blood bound to her, he would have been able to leave her behind. With the bond, though, he always wanted to have her close, no matter what the cost might be to him.

_I knew there was a reason I never allowed myself to share blood before,_ he thought angrily. _How did I get myself into this? What if she goes over to the other side? Will I be able to walk away? Will I be able to kill her?_ He realized the answers even as he asked the questions. He was powerless. _If only there was someone else in the city I could go to, someone to watch my back and make sure I don't do anything patently stupid._ K.T. shook his head, though. He knew there was no one he could go to, no one in the city, besides Erica, that he could call 'friend.' He only hoped that living the life of a loner had not finally caught up to him.

**V**

"So what's the deal?" Michelle asked as Johnny hung up the phone, immediately seeming lost in thought.

"We're staying," Yashida replied. "Siras says we need the money and that it's good enough to work for the collective primogen if there isn't a prince. He didn't say it, but he also wants to get Brett some much needed experience."

"Why?" Michelle asked.

"Because we lost Matt," Johnny explained. "The ranks were thin as it was, but with Matt gone, we lost the best soldier we had outside Pennsylvania. If we're going to keep hiring ourselves out to oppose sieges, we're going to need experienced and capable leaders. Siras is busy building the clan, so he can't do it. Marcus is needed at our sire's side. Brett is the next most qualified candidate in the clan. He has to be prepared to be a command officer."

"I don't get it," Michelle replied. "I thought that since you were Siras' childe, that you would be the one in command."

"I'm no soldier," Johnny admitted, "and everyone knows it. My orders are to defer to Brett. I may technically be the higher ranking Telemon, at least in theory, but he will have control here. He's far better suited for this command. "

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," Michelle said, trying to comfort her friend. Though Johnny never said so, she knew he had always felt a little left out within his own clan. He would likely never be able to wade into a large battle the way his clanmates could. Of course, Michelle was of the opinion that Yashida would avoid full-scale assaults due to his superior intelligence rather than his inferior strength, but that was another matter she left unspoken.

"I'm not being hard on myself," Johnny replied. "I don't think it's any secret that I'm not a warrior. I'm a diplomat and a spy. Every army needs people like me, so I at least have a niche. I just don't get in on the whole 'We Can Blow Up Shit Really Well' club that seems to exist in the clan. Anyway, it's not like I'm a complete pushover."

Michelle only smiled in response. She knew well that Johnny had always been adept in getting close to an enemy and finishing him off quickly and quietly. If he had remained mortal, he might have one day become an assassin. With that one disturbing thought, her thin smile vanished and her demeanor darkened. Thankfully, Johnny seemed too wrapped up in making plans to notice her change in mood. She could see a slight tendency in the direction of becoming an assassin, and it had only gotten worse since Yashida had embraced a Yakuza ninja. Uiko had already taught Johnny a great deal, even as he tutored her in the ways of the kindred world. Within a few decades, should they both survive that long, Michelle knew that those who contracted the services of the Telemon might do so as much for an assassination as for a stand-up fight against the Sabbat. Sometimes she feared for Johnny, as she knew that once he started down that road, he would likely never be the same again.

"So when is Brett getting here?" she asked, trying to shake the uncomfortable thoughts from her head. The last thing she wanted to do was start thinking about Uiko. It was bad enough that Johnny was spending more time with her, and even worse that he thought Uiko deserving of training that he had denied Michelle. The Gangrel would be damned if she started dwelling on the woman she increasingly thought of as her rival.

"He'll be here tomorrow evening," Johnny answered. "He's flying out of Pennsylvania tonight, but only going as far as Memphis. He'll take a puddle-jumper in tomorrow, so that he'll get here as early as possible."

"I guess Mason and I are back on pick-up detail?" Michelle asked.

"Yeah," Yashida answered. "I'll keep Uiko here with our prisoner, and you and Mason will get Brett. Try to get out in the field as soon as possible. We need to get us some kills so our employers feel they're getting their money's worth. We'll be staying in until then."

"Should we try to get prisoners, too?"

"Definitely," Yashida answered. "Anyone you take will be brought back here. Then we can hand them over to the Tremere. Their primogen seems to have quite a bit of influence, and very well might be the next prince. I want to make him our friend."

"So what are you going to be doing while I'm at the airport?" Michelle asked suspiciously, letting on that she was surprised she had not realized sooner that Yashida had conspicuously left himself out of the plans.

"I have to meet with some contacts," Johnny answered evasively. "I also--." His sentence was cut short by a knock at the door. Immediately, Michelle picked up her Glock, and Johnny produced two Berettas, seemingly out of nowhere. Michelle dashed to a small screen in the corner, and checked to see who was outside. She breathed a sigh of relief, and gestured for Johnny to open the door. As Yashida did so, he came face to face with Southpaw.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the Telemon asked evenly, not bothering to hide his irritation. He had been asked to leave his whereabouts in case of an emergency. From what he could tell, the city was still standing, and no large-scale violence was endangering the lives of hundreds of humans. His definition of 'emergency' had not been fulfilled.

"I need to talk with you," Southpaw answered.

"I left a beeper number for you to get in touch with me," Yashida answered. He made a couple of subtle hand motions, meant for Michelle, which alerted her to the fact that Johnny wanted her and Mason to patrol the perimeter to make certain that Southpaw had not been followed.

"I wanted to talk to you about this face to face," Southpaw said. "It's a rather sensitive subject, and I wanted to make sure no one else knew we had this conversation."

"Are you sure you weren't followed?" Johnny asked in a condescending tone.

"I'm certain," Southpaw replied. "I may not be the best politician, as you could tell at the meeting earlier, but I have some talents. I worked as a courier for the regent for over ten years; I'm the one who carried all of his important messages. I don't get followed."

"So what's the big secret?"

"My sire was, of course, well aware of his precarious position," Southpaw started. "He knew he could be killed at almost any time, and that few questions would be asked higher up in the Camarilla because he was not even really a prince. He wanted to make certain that if something ever happened, that I would be able to seek out his killer and visit vengeance upon him."

"Sounds rather melodramatic so far," Johnny commented. "So why should I care about any of this? My clan is here to fight the Sabbat, not assist you in a private vendetta."

"I don't need help getting revenge," Southpaw shot back. "I need help finding out who was behind it. My sire put aside five million dollars, to be paid to the person or persons that discovered who his murderer was. If you can find out who killed Ash, the five million is yours."

"Not a bad chunk of cash," Johnny commented, making certain he hid how interested he was in getting his hands on such a large sum. "What exactly did you have in mind? I mean, for all you know, I could have done it."

"You're an outsider, and my sire hired you himself," Southpaw said. "He was thorough in researching you. I don't particularly trust you, but I trust him not to be stupid enough to hire the people that would kill him. Anyway, it's not like I could go to anyone else in the city. They all make much more likely suspects."

"True enough," Yashida agreed. "I'm pretty busy, though. I don't know if I have time for this." Johnny guessed that more than just five million had been set aside, and that Southpaw was holding out on him. He wanted to get more money.

"I know what you're doing," Southpaw replied smoothly. "There's only the five mil. If you want more, you're out of luck; I'll just do it myself. You don't have to decide now. You can think about it first."

"You can have my answer now," Yashida said. "I'll look into stuff as I fight the Sabbat. Opposing the siege is what I was hired to do, and I'll do it. If I run across any valuable information, I'll let you know. Can't devote all my time to this, though."

"Whatever you can do is great," Southpaw replied, his spirits seeming to rise despite all of the problems that he was facing. "You have my number. Give me a call if anything comes up."

"I'll do that," Johnny answered. As Southpaw turned to leave, Yashida could only smile. _I never expected this trip to be so lucrative. I wonder what other surprises are waiting for me here in New Orleans._ Southpaw was halfway out the door when a thought suddenly occurred to the Telemon. "Hey, I need to know something," Yashida called out, stopping the Ventrue messenger dead in his tracks.

"What's that?" Southpaw asked suspiciously.

"Exactly how was the regent killed?"

"That's an internal matter," Southpaw answered. "I can't discuss it with you.

"So you want me to investigate this for you, but you won't even give me the most basic information to begin my inquiry?" Johnny asked dubiously. "Do you want the killer found or not?"

"Of course I do," Southpaw responded, "but it has to be done my way."

"Even the mortals start with the scene of the crime and look for clues on the body," Johnny said. "Am I to presume that you're also gonna keep me away from the scene?"

"Yes," the Ventrue confirmed. "To let you see the scene of the crime is to let you see the defenses of Ash's home. Since I still live there, I don't feel comfortable conducting such a revealing tour."

"I see," Johnny replied, noting silently that he now knew that Ash had been killed in his own home. That much the Telemon could have guessed, but knowing it for a fact at least answered one of his laundry list of questions. "Well, like I said, I'll look into this a bit when I have some spare time, but I can't make any promises. Especially if you're not willing to work with me at least a little bit."

"That's how it has to be."

"Fine," Yashida muttered. In the back of his head, he wondered why Southpaw would go out of his way to ask for help, while all the while denying him access to the information that would help him most. True, the Telemon admitted, Southpaw had every right in the world to be paranoid about his defenses, especially if they had been breached once already. Silently, Johnny made a note to himself to remember that Southpaw, and presumably the other Ventrue, did not truly trust him or his clanmates as much as they professed. He only hoped that would not make matters difficult down the line.

**VI**

K.T. stopped his Buick Century one block away from his planned target – Miss May's bar, located on the corner of Magazine and Napoleon. The mercenary approached slowly, making certain that no one was watching him. Not that he would likely be able to tell, he knew. He felt reasonably certain that not only was one of Roi's people keeping an eye on him, it was likely that one of Philip's associates was, as well. Miss Mae's was out in the open, but it was getting late and there would be few witnesses to anything that happened. The real problem, the mercenary knew, was that a police station was just across the street. He could hardly come up with a plan for the hit that would allow him to escape before any cops showed up. He tried to talk Roi out of the assault, but the bishop would have none of it. An old Gangrel worked the bar, and the Sabbat leader wanted him out of the way. K.T. knew it was a test. _He wants to know if I can be discrete,_ he thought, _and whether I am enough of a mercenary to kill a clanmate in cold blood._ He shook his head in disgust at having accepted the job. He knew he should have expected something like this. _I really need to remember to think things through before I accept a job my associates plan for me. Or maybe I just need new associates._

The Gangrel looked up the street one last time as he got close to the dive bar, making certain that Erica was in position. She was still in the car, keeping it running. Too late the thought occurred to him that he should have gotten his hands on a more powerful getaway vehicle. If he was unfortunate enough to be pursued, the Century might not cut it. What made his fears even worse was the knowledge that Erica would likely be driving in an escape, and K.T. had serious issues with Erica's driving ability. _Lack of driving ability is more like it,_ he corrected himself. _Well, at least if we evade any pursuers, no one would have any luck finding us in a Buick Century. There are at least a dozen of them in any given half-mile radius in the United States_.

Erica waved slightly as he looked back, and K.T. steeled himself for what he hoped would be a quick and efficient kill. _Just go in, kill him, and leave,_ K.T. repeated to himself. Roi had commented that any excessive show of violence was acceptable, as would be expected. The Sabbat generally did not bother keeping a low profile. The greatest law of the Camarilla was the Masquerade, which dictated that vampires hide their existence from mortals. In defying their elders, the Sabbat decided, rather foolishly, that taking actions that could avoid another Inquisition was not in their best interest. _The hell with that,_ K.T. thought. _They might be paying me, but I'll be damned if I lower myself to their professional standards. Roi wants high profile, he can come down here and firebomb the place himself when I'm done._

K.T. checked himself one last time just before he walked in. _Why the hell are you so nervous?_ he asked himself. _It's not like you've never done anything like this before. Do you really think this will be any different?_ K.T. thought for a moment, and decided that he would probably not find anything he had never seen before. He knew his target would probably be tougher than he had been led to believe, and he knew that he was performing for at least one audience, and possibly two. _Perhaps that's it,_ he mused. _Maybe I just don't like knowing that people are watching, measuring me against whatever unknown expectations they have of me._ The Gangrel paused for a brief moment, and laughed. _The hell with that. Who gives a rat's ass what they think of my performance? They have a problem with me, they can go fuck themselves. Just forget all this crap and be professional, K.T._

The mercenary shook off any doubt, opened the door, and took in his environment with one experienced, sweeping glance. Over the decades he had trained himself to see every vital detail in a matter of seconds. He saw two men sitting at the bar and a middle-aged man working the taps. His target was the bartender. K.T. prepared himself to stay for a couple of minutes, just to make sure that no one was in the bathroom. The last thing he needed was to be shot at by an off-duty police officer... or one of the million armed southerners in the city.

"Give me a Dixie," K.T. said as he walked up to the bar and laid down a five. The bartender just nodded and pulled a long neck from the refrigerator and handed it over. K.T. walked over toward a dartboard in the back of the bar and looked quickly at his watch and decided he would wait two minutes before making his move. The Gangrel looked at the bottle and smiled slightly, despite the tension of the moment. He found it amusing that he had remembered a fairly clever ad campaign for Dixie beer. It had been that 'Dixie beer is better than every other beer in the world combined.' When he had first heard the statement, K.T. had doubted its veracity. While he could not drink beer any longer, he had been in enough southern bars to know that Dixie was on a par with any American swill, though that was not saying much. However, the radio commentator had gone on, explaining that a representative of Dixie beer was traveling all around the world, collecting samples of every beer made anywhere. At the end of the trip, every single sample would be mixed together and compared with the taste of Dixie. It had been a long time since K.T. had drank a beer, but he was fairly certain that Dixie's claim would hold up in that case.

_One minute down, one to go,_ K.T. thought as he stole another glance at his watch. He kept an eye on the men at the bar, trying to discern if they would be an obstacle to his plan. Both of them had certainly consumed some of their beers, so it was highly unlikely they would be vampires. The most K.T. figured he would be facing was a couple of ghouls. That much he could handle. He thought about his actions, making certain it was all scripted perfectly in his head. Walk up, incapacitate the patrons, and kill the bartender. He went through a series of ways of achieving his goals, but refused to choose one. He would only subject himself to a plan to a certain degree. The ability to improvise was more important to the Gangrel than the certainty of a plan.

_Whatever happens, make certain he does not escape,_ the bishop had warned. This Gangrel had countless contacts, and many friends that owed him favors. If a Sabbat siege got out of hand, he could have a dozen Gangrel come into the city to form opposition. That was the last thing Roi wanted. He hoped that killing the Gangrel would prevent this. Of course, he was gambling that there were not enough good friends to come looking for payback. _I hope so too,_ K.T. thought. _The last thing I need is to be gunned down by some friend of this clown twenty years from now._

_Okay, two minutes,_ the Gangrel noted. He walked toward the bar, sending his blood moving into his arms, chest, and shoulders, increasing his upper body strength. As he came within a couple of feet of the patrons, he also grew his hands into claws. He moved the beer into his left hand as he came within arm's reach, placing his hand on his Ruger even as he began to strike.

As his left arm began to move, swinging the beer bottle in a powerful arc, K.T. could see that the bartender had not been surprised. _Makes sense,_ K.T. acknowledged. _He's a bartender that's used to working all night in a rough city. Even being across the street from a police station, he would have seen some scuffles in his time._ The mercenary ignored the bartender for the first couple of seconds, feeling that eliminating eyewitnesses was of the utmost importance. The beer bottle shattered as it impacted against the first man's head, and K.T.'s victim slumped off of barstool and onto the floor. The second was still alert enough to be halfway turned around as K.T. slammed the cylinder of his revolver into the man's forehead. He knew from experience that the second man would not remember much of anything.

K.T. was putting his Ruger back in his shoulder holster and beginning his move against the bartender as he saw his target raising an Ithaca shotgun from behind the bar. _One blast from that and this place'll be crawling with cops in thirty seconds,_ K.T. knew. He dropped his revolver as he launched himself over the bar, using his blood to accelerate his movements, making use of the vampiric discipline of celerity. The skill allowed him to move at supernatural speed, taking several coordinated actions in the same amount of time that a mortal could make only one.

The mercenary could see the look of surprise as the bartender saw him speed up, and he saw his target respond in kind, also accelerating his motion to keep pace. Rather than bothering to take aim, the bartender swung the shotgun, using it as a club to fend off his attacker. His first swing was aimed impeccably, catching K.T. on the right side of his head, crushing his jaw. K.T. stifled his howl of pain and focused on his attack, knowing that every second the confrontation lasted was another second that allowed a witness to walk through the door. The mercenary threw a quick punch, aiming to thrust his taloned fist into his opponent's chest, but the old man parried the attack with the rifle, spun it around deftly, and brought the stock down on the top of K.T.'s head. The mercenary knew that his skull had been fractured. The crack and the immediate feeling of blood running freely both inside and outside his head told him that. He knew the pain would set in within a fraction of a second, and that extreme disorientation would follow. Only his unnatural speed gave him the opportunity to act before his mind could catch up with reality and process the information he was certain his pain receptors were sending.

K.T. allowed his legs to drop out from under him, knowing that he would be heading toward the floor involuntarily in a moment anyway. As he fell, he swiped out at the older Gangrel. This time, the bartender was unable to block the unexpected attack. He was opened from neck to nape, and blood and internal organs poured from his body and all over K.T.

As he hit the floor, K.T. lost all sense of reason. Pain erupted in his skull, and his vision went black. He could not hear anything, and could not even remember where he had been before he lost touch with his surroundings. Out of his blur he felt something moving against his leg. _That's bad,_ he thought, trying to focus on what was happening. He rushed blood into his head, knowing from experience that his state was probably the result of a massive head injury. _I was fighting someone. If he's moving against me, then the fight isn't done yet. I have to get off my ass._

K.T. willed himself to stand but was unsure that his effort was meeting with any success. He focused his energy and thought he could slowly start to make out the scene around him. The mercenary knew that his blood was healing his injury, and he tried to stand again. This time, he succeeded in pulling his body from the floor. He looked down, and saw the bartender stirring, trying to pull his torso back together. With every passing second, K.T. recovered further from a wound that would have killed a mortal. He began to remember where he was and what he was doing, and looked toward the door in terror. He surmised instantly that no one else had walked in, and knew that he was okay, at least for the meantime. _Erica should be outside by now,_ he realized, remembering that his Ventrue companion would pull up outside four minutes after he entered. She would not follow him in unless there was an obvious emergency. He hoped that she had followed instructions as he hefted his victim from the floor. K.T. saw that his hands were still grown into claws, and plunged them into the bartender's chest once again, this time ending all movement permanently. The older Gangrel had simply been injured too greatly to ever recover, and was extinguished.

Now the only chore left was to dispose of the body. This would serve two purposes. First and foremost, it would protect the Masquerade. Secondly, and only slightly less importantly, having no body would likely delay any forthcoming retribution. No friends would come to town looking for justice if they could not be sure that the old man had died. The Gangrel were wanderers by nature. It would be a long time before anyone would know for certain that this particular vampire had been killed. K.T. balanced the corpse on one shoulder, attempting to make it seem that he was carrying an intoxicated man to a car. Of course, he knew that the gallon of blood that covered both of them would betray the truth to anyone who looked at them for more than a brief moment, but he needed to take the chance. He opened the door slightly, and was relieved to see Erica waiting outside. He could see a similar look of relief in her eyes, and offered a thin, reassuring smile. In a heartbeat he had covered the five feet between him and the back door of the Buick. He tossed the body in and dove in after it as Erica pulled slowly away from the curb, making certain not to draw the attention of anyone who may have been watching from across the street.

"You look like hell, K.T.," she commented.

"The old man was a little more skilled than I had been led to believe," K.T. returned.

"I guess the bishop wanted to test you," Erica said. "I guess it's understandable. He just wanted to make sure that you are every bit as good as advertised."

"That's enough," K.T. replied, not wanting to hear even one more syllable of Erica defending the actions of the Sabbat. It was bad enough that she was comfortable with them. The last thing he needed was for her to start thinking like them again.

"Enough of what?" Erica asked innocently. "You know what I'm saying, though, right? Anyway, there wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn't insisted on being so damned subtle. Are you really going to sit there and try to tell me it wouldn't have been easier to just walk in with an AK-47 and blow away everyone in the place? That's what I would have done."

"That's why you only get to drive the getaway car," K.T. countered. He hid his shock at Erica's comments. _Just a short time around those animals, and already she's starting to fall into line again,_ K.T. realized with growing dread. He heard Erica say something in reply, but never bothered to listen to what it was. Instead, he simply stared out the window as she made her way toward the cemetery where they would dispose of their victim's body. _I should never have come here, and I most certainly should never have brought her with me._

**VII**

"So, what do you think of my young student?" Philip asked cordially.

"He seems competent," Hassan replied, avoiding giving Philip the satisfaction of a more positive response. The Assamite was many centuries old and had worked with Philip for a long time. While the Gangrel was indeed an excellent recruiter for the Black Hand, he had the habit of becoming rather annoying in his search for approval. Both men knew that K.T. was an acceptable recruit, despite his youth. Hassan saw little point in lavishing praise the way Philip would have liked.

"Perhaps," Philip said, enjoying the brief moment of surprise on his associate's face.

"You see a problem?" Hassan asked. He found it more than simply unusual that Philip would seriously question the abilities of one of his own recruits. In over two hundred years, that had never happened. To question his protégé would be to cast doubt on his own judgment in bringing him into the fold. Philip had always seemed far too infatuated with himself to believe that he could ever possibly commit an error.

"Mr. Corben's abilities are unquestionably adequate," Philip responded, agreeing with Hassan's earlier statement. "That much had been determined before I ever appeared to him. However, his judgment may be impaired. Perhaps he was too young, after all."

"Maybe he was not ready yet," Hassan agreed. It had never been any secret that Hassan had never particularly cared for K.T. He felt that the young Gangrel was little more than an anarch that had survived longer than he should have. He was incredibly skilled, but lacked direction. He simply sold his services to the highest bidder, without a care for his employer's motives. He had worked for the Camarilla and the Sabbat alike. While Hassan's own clan would also work both sides of the fence, he knew the Assamites had a code of conduct that provided honor and direction. For all of K.T.'s impressive abilities, Hassan was unsure that the Gangrel had gone the necessary step of developing a code. That was what would define a true warrior, separating him from the rest of the unworthy neonates in the world.

"Maybe he is one that would never be ready," Philip commented, his tone possessing a hint of regret.

"You think you made a mistake?" Hassan asked, making certain his feigned disbelief was expressed enough to be sensed by his comrade.

"It had to happen eventually," Philip said, avoiding eye contact with the assassin. "K.T. is everything we would want physically, but he never really uses his head. Take tonight for example. He walked into that bar alone, and employed a means of attack that left him vulnerable to an enemy he never bothered to scout out. He actually depended upon the accuracy of the Sabbat reports. No one who works for us should make such an error."

"He had no reason to believe his employer would put him in a position that would risk his life needlessly, especially after the amount of money he has already been paid," Hassan pointed out. "The error was Roi's, not K.T.'s. A Sabbat siege has to rely on sudden and brutal attacks. K.T. can't take the time to research every single job that's offered to him. Nothing would ever get done. You should know that by now."

"Are you defending our young associate's actions?" Philip asked, not hiding his curiosity at the situation. K.T. had apparently supplied the pair with two firsts. Never before had Philip doubted one of his own recruits, and never before had Hassan defended one of them.

"I would have to think the man worthwhile to take the effort to defend him," Hassan answered. "He is only a whelp, and not yet worthy of such attention from me. I simply mean to make certain you have not lost your own perspective."

"Of course," Philip replied. "Perhaps you're right. He did show the forethought to at least be discreet and also dispose of the body. He survived the attack, which was more than I may have expected, especially given the fact that he actually walked into arm's reach. Tacoma was no slouch. He'd killed many kindred in his days."

"If I remember correctly, there was a time you had actually observed Tacoma with an interest in recruitment," Hassan reminded his companion.

"Yes," Philip said. "Like K.T. may be, he was physically capable, but lacked the requisite brain. Besides, Tacoma never had any aspirations other than to hang out and tend bar for all eternity. He would never have been an ideal candidate, despite his impressive combat skills.

"Anyway, the matter that has me most concerned is the presence of Miss Blackwell," Philip continued. "Bringing her into the city was a risk that K.T. should never have even considered. The blood bond may need to be eliminated."

"That could only be done with her death," Hassan pointed out. "I thought we wanted to keep her around, to use as leverage if K.T. didn't ever toe the line."

"Our love-struck Gangrel is going to get himself killed, or perhaps worse," Philip answered. "He's no good to us if he ends up following her into the Sabbat, and he will likely be impaired for some time if he's forced to leave her. I guess I should have seen this coming."

"Probably," Hassan agreed, "but I think you're being too pessimistic. The Blackwell woman has not turned to the Sabbat. At least not yet. She's simply shown that she's not quite as afraid of them as one would expect. Neither one of them will likely end up in the Sabbat. As for K.T.'s lack of judgment, I think you're taking that too seriously. He fought and defeated a vampire of greater age and generation. Does it truly matter whether he did it the way you would have?"

"I suppose not," Philip admitted.

"Then there's no problem," Hassan concluded. The Assamite patted himself on the back for being so convincing. Of course, he had had much riding on his being able to talk Philip out of getting down on K.T. If Philip had not been convinced, Hassan would have been subjected to his griping for days, perhaps even weeks. The assassin had just won a great victory for his own peace of mind.

"There is still one problem," Philip reminded his associate. "There is yet the matter of the Telemon running loose in the city. I would very much like for them to be extinguished."

"You mean you would very much like for your initiate to extinguish them," Hassan clarified. "I do not understand this obsession with the Telemon."

"They're mindless grunts," Philip answered. "They're a blight upon the kindred world, and I'm tired of their meddling constantly interfering with our plans. They may prove to be a disruption."

"How so?" Hassan asked, genuinely curious as to how Philip viewed a young upstart bloodline as any form of impediment.

"They have had an unexpected, and unprecedented, rate of success against the Sabbat," the old Gangrel explained. "Obviously they've been lucky thus far, and I'm certain that sooner or later someone in the Sabat will direct his attention in their direction. Thatw ill likely end the complications the grunts cause, but if it doesn't happen soon… If the clan grows, there will be a small force with expertise in opposing sieges. This may, in time, bring about some degree of stability in the New World. You know as well as I do that stability is the last thing we want."

"They are too young to ever pose a threat," Hassan stated evenly. "Your scenario is not without merit, but they would need to need to evade special attention from the Sabbat for decades more to come, and we both know that will not happen. If they keep fighting the Sabbat, they will die off soon."

"I remember reading similar words in regards to clan Tremere," Philip replied coldly. "No one expected them to survive a war with the Tzimisce. Not only did they survive, they prospered. They immediately found a niche and filled it. At this point in history, we do not need another such success story."

"The Tremere grew up in different times," Hassan reminded his friend. "It was possible for them to find elders upon whom they could feed. The warlocks were able to advance their founder to the third generation, to make him an antediluvian. This is not something the Telemon can achieve."

"Are you so certain?" Philip asked. "Is that's omething we would be wise to take for granted? They have proven to be quite resourceful. I would not bet against them so readily. They're professional mercenaries, trained to be the best on the field, and all adhere to a strict code of conduct and discipline. An Assamite, of all people, should see the threat such a group could pose."

"You worry too much," Hassan said as he stood wearily from his chair. "The sun will be rising soon, and I need sleep."

"I have made you uncomfortable," Philip said.

"You have made me bored," Hassan clarified. "In the whole scheme of things, whether Mr. Corben kills the Telemon is irrelevant. If he does, he will simply earn your fickle approval for another day. If he is killed, you will find a new recruit. If he decides, for one reason or another, that he should not engage the Telemon, then he will prove himself to be, perhaps, more than you give him credit for being."

"More than I give him credit for being?" Philip asked, noting once again the strange sensation that Hassan approved of this recruit. "And what exactly would that be?"

"Something that you have grown too set in your Machiavellian ways to ever understand," Hassan replied.

"Oh, that's rich," Philip answered. "Me Machiavellian? That's the crow calling the raven black."

"I am what I am," Hassan said. "You are what you are. And K.T. is what he is. What exactly that is, I guess we will see soon enough." Without another word, Hassan walked from the room and toward his own private cell, where he would be able to sleep safely until the next sunset.

_To be continued……………………………………_


	4. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 3

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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CHAPTER 3

**I**

"How bad is the situation so far?" Brett asked as he went through his duffel bag, preparing his weapons. "All I've been told is that the Sabbat has started the shooting, and that casualties have already started to pile up, though so far other than the regent none of the prominent players has been hit."

"We're not entirely sure yet," Michelle answered. "We're still trying to figure out exactly what kind of numbers we're up against. We think we've made one pack, and there's at least one other pack that was going around setting fires. With any luck it's only the two of them, but like I said, we're not entirely sure."

"You're not entirely sure?" Brett asked, not hiding his irritation. "I thought you were good at gathering information. If you can't even do that right, then can you remind me again why the hell it is we have you here?"

"What exactly are you planning on doing here?" Michelle asked, ignoring the Telemon's question. She had tried to be polite, despite the fact that she knew Brett liked her no more than she liked him, but he had already pushed too far. There was no way she was going to back down.

"I've been ordered to assess the situation, consult with Yashida, and then take command of our people here," Brett replied as he slapped a fully loaded double magazine into his H&K MP-5.

"This will be your first time commanding troops against a siege, right?" Michelle asked with a thin, unsettlingly sinister smile.

"I know what you're thinking," Brett answered. "I may be a grunt, but I'm not an idiot. You don't think I have what it takes to take command."

'That's right," Michelle said bluntly. "I'm not Telemon, and therefore I don't have to take orders from you. I doubt your skill and experience, and I don't want to follow you to an early death. I'm just trying to decide whether or not you have what it takes to keep me and Johnny from being bloodstains on the street.

"I assure you that I'm ready."

"Dollars to donuts George Custer said the same thing to his people the night before Little Bighorn," Michelle shot back with a broadening smile. She was tickled with herself by being able to make her point through the use of a military history reference. "I don't know why you don't follow Johnny's lead. He was embraced before you, his blood is more potent, and he's actually been in a Sabbat siege. He should be in command."

"He lacks military training," Brett answered simply. "He's not qualified."

"He could kick your ass seven ways to Sunday," Michelle said confidently.

"Maybe," Brett conceded, appearing unwilling to get into a pissing contest with Yashida's Gangrel sidekick. "But he lacks the formal military instruction and experience in conducting an urban warfare operation."

"So to be part of your Rambo club, he had to have been in the military before his embrace, is that it?" Michelle asked. "Anything he's learned at the feet of his Telemon masters is irrelevant?"

"Where the hell is all this coming from, Michelle?" Brett asked wearily. "I seriously doubt Johnny put you up to asking these questions. He's always accepted his role, and you've always been a pain in the ass."

"Excuse me?" Michelle asked evenly. "You have a problem with me?" Michelle knew the answer before she asked her question, but she still could not pass up the opportunity to be belligerent and insubordinate. She knew it would piss Brett off.

"Does that surprise you?" Brett asked in reply. "Not only do you share Johnny's irritating lack of restraint, you're also very little good in a fight. I can't understand why he keeps you around."

"Maybe Johnny just appreciates some of my more sensual skills," Michelle suggested. She passed on mentioning that she had been hard at work developing her combat abilities. Partly, she had to admit to herself, she wanted to be more comparable to Uiko, and partly she had gotten tired of going to Johnny for protection. She had decided to take care of herself, and Mason had taught her a great deal.

"Well if you're just his whore, he should admit it and keep you out of things," Brett answered. Michelle's only immediate response was to slam on the brakes, bringing the Jeep to a stop in the middle of Carrollton Street. Vehicles behind her slammed on their own brakes and veered away to avoid Michelle's Jeep, and a plethora of profanities were lobbed in her direction. "You think you might get us started again anytime soon?" Brett asked nonchalantly.

"Eat me," Michelle shot back. "I can't believe Johnny always has me pick up his jarhead friends at the airport. You guys piss me off so much."

"You're breaking my heart," Brett answered. "Did he say when he would meet up with us?"

"I assume he's planning on meeting us before dawn," Michelle replied. "He said I should show you around and help you shoot shit up. I guess I would need your okay on that, though, since you'll be in command now."

"Going around shooting shit is fine with me," Brett answered. "You think you can handle yourself all right?"

"Johnny's taught me a lot," Michelle replied, once again omitting any reference to Mason. "I'll be fine."

"If you want to learn some really nice skills, you should hang with me," Brett said.

"And if you want to be even more of a useless prick than you already are, your balls should hang with my knife," Michelle replied caustically, not missing the fact that he had made a thinly veiled pass at her. She could hardly believe she was already fed up with Brett, but she had expected little else. Outside of Johnny, she had never cared for anyone in the Telemon clan. Matt had not been too bad, but that was only because he was very tolerant of everything that Johnny said or did, as well as everyone Johnny brought around. The others were too busy impressing themselves and each other with how bad-ass they were to bother much with social skills. They grated on Michelle's nerves, and when Johnny was not around, she saw no reason to fake civility. The Telemon saw her as a useless piece of flesh worthy of little more than serving as a human shield, or potentially as a whore with whom they could share blood between battles. She saw them as mindless grunts with no purpose in life outside of combat. She felt bad that Mason would one day likely end up like the rest of his clanmates.

With her passing thought of Johnny's youngest childe, Michelle checked her rearview mirror and made certain that Mason was still following them. She smiled thinly as she saw his Bronco two cars back. _Soldier boy here didn't even notice we've been followed ever since we left the airport. And he thinks he has what it takes to oppose a siege…_

"What about Yashida's childe?" Brett asked, referring to Uiko. Michelle knew that Brett had not yet been informed about Mason, and would not be for some time. Yashida knew all too well that his superiors would snatch up Mason in a heartbeat, and that was unacceptable. In Johnny's mind, Michelle knew, Matt had died partly because he had been given too much responsibility before being ready for it. He would not make the same mistake again. Johnny planned to train Mason slowly and thoroughly, making certain he could not only defend himself in a fight, but could also step wisely in the political world of the kindred. Siras and Marcus could turn him into a killing machine later. Yashida was certain that with enough time, Mason could be among the best of them.

"What do you mean?" Michelle asked, not wanting to volunteer any information about Uiko. If Brett wanted to know something, he would have to ask.

"Is she any good in a fight?" the soldier clarified.

"Depends on what you want from her," Michelle answered evasively. Before Brett could bother her with a definitive question, she simply decided to fill in the gaps herself, though she would limit herself only to Uiko's fighting skills. Anything else Brett wanted, he would have to get from Uiko or Johnny. "She's excellent in hand-to-hand combat," Michelle clarified. "I think she was a black belt or something before the embrace. She's still not good with a gun, though, and she's very slow. Well, at least she's slow compared to her sire, and even me. She's really not ready for this."

"And you feel you're qualified to decide what she is and is not ready for?" Brett asked caustically. "I don't need your opinions, Michelle. I only need to know what my troops are capable of doing."

"Well, last I heard, she's not one of your troops, if you want to get technical," Michelle replied, not bothering to hide her amusement. "I was under the impression that she hadn't been released by her sire yet. That means that Johnny doesn't think she's ready, and I think you probably respect his opinion more than mine."

"You can bet your ass on that," Brett assured her.

"Also, if she hasn't been released, then she's not yours to command," Michelle pointed out.

"What?" Brett asked, seeming genuinely surprised by her statement.

"It's in the Traditions," Michelle continued, referring to the centuries-old set of edicts accepted as kindred law. "Uiko does not truly exist as a vampire until her sire releases her. If she's not truly a vampire, then she's not yours to command. It's pretty funny, don't you think? You're going to be the commanding officer of two – you and Johnny. Oh, and as you always point out, he's not worth much in a fight. You might seriously want to consider calling for some reinforcements. I hear McLachlan and his childe are on stand-by, and I guess you could call your ghoul, too, for what that's worth."

"Johnny's report said that we would have enough as is," Brett answered. "Two Telemon does not sound like enough."

"Well, he has friends," Michelle pointed out. "Johnny had a great plan. Maybe you should have bothered to ask about it."

"What?"

"It's not important," Michelle replied with a devilish smile. "After all, like you said, Johnny hasn't had any formal military training. Nothing he comes up with would be any good, anyway."

"Wipe that smirk off your face, bitch, and tell me what I need to know."

"With an attitude like that, I think you should kiss my ass," Michelle shot back. "But I'm going to be the mature one here and let you know what's going through Johnny's head. He knows two Telemon would never be enough. Even with a young Gangrel and a neonate thrown into the mix, you'd still be overpowered. With the losses your clan has taken lately, though, he's reluctant to build the force he knows you'd need in order to go toe-to-toe with our enemies. So, rather than use this siege as an opportunity to build a reputation with the general kindred populace, he's had us infiltrate the anarchs. We'll use them as support in our battles to make up for our lack of soldiers. We still get to impress the primogen and crew, but the anarchs will likely never know we're here until we've gone."

"It's a good plan," Brett said after a moment's thought. "But coming up with devious schemes was never Johnny's weak point. It's only in the practical application of force that he's found lacking. His skills still do his sire proud and honor our clan."

"I didn't know you held him in such high esteem," Michelle responded, unable to hide her genuine surprise. She had never heard Brett speak highly of Yashida. Brett had been spoiled by being in the core group of the clan, which consisted of Siras, Marcus, and the best warriors the clan had to offer. He had never seemed to take a liking to Yashida, with his reputation for stealth, deceit, and diplomacy, along with a notoriously wide independent streak.

"Johnny is a valued member of the clan," Brett answered. "He is simply not considered to be a worthy general. In fact, the only thing about Johnny I can think of which speaks ill of him is his affinity for you."

"Fuck you," Michelle replied sharply. She had decided that she had had enough of her discussion with Brett Tailor. She would not speak with him again until it was time to introduce him to Damage Incorporated.

**II**

"You want me to go out gang-banging with one of your packs?" K.T. asked skeptically. "Are you kidding me?"

"Not at all, Mr. Corben," Roi replied absently. "While the local anarchs have no love for the city's current leadership, they seem to have heard one too many horror stories about the Sabbat. Our little secret seems to have gotten out rather quickly, and they know now who we are. I have already sent emissaries, and the locals have declined to join us. They must now be exterminated."

"Hey, it's your money, I won't tell you how to spend it," K.T. replied. "I just figured that you'd want more from me than to put down some anarch neonates."

"All in good time, Mr. Corben," Roi answered smoothly, finally turning toward his expensive mercenary and giving him the attention K.T. was used to receiving. "I have many plans for you. Do not be concerned that your ample talents will be going to waste. I do not see much harm, however, in letting you get acclimated to the situation slowly. You did an excellent job last night with Tacoma, and a light night is your reward. After all, you probably still have some recuperation to take care of."

"I'm doing fine," K.T. replied gruffly, not wanting to let on that he was either stronger or weaker than his employer assumed. As the situation stood, K.T. had healed all of his injuries, and had also drank his fill of blood in the French Quarter. He was as ready as he would ever be.

"Then go join Riddick," Roi commanded. "While he is a rather formidable warrior, he lacks some of your refinement and experience. Perhaps some of your professionalism will rub off on him."

"Whatever," K.T. said with a shrug, knowing that the bishop's comments had been meant only as flattery. The Gangrel knew that Riddick had developed all the professionalism he would ever need to be a Sabbat pack leader. He was big, strong, violent, fearless, and did not ask too many questions. A Sabbat bishop could never ask for more.

Just as the Gangrel was turning to leave, the bishop added one more thing. "Will Miss Flaherty be joining you this evening?" he asked as an afterthought. K.T. noticed the bishop had been thoughtful enough to continue using Erica's alias, even in private, but something about Roi's tone set off the Gangrel's danger sense. He could not prove it, but he knew the bishop was up to something.

"She always accompanies me," K.T. said evenly, fixing a stare on the bishop's dark eyes. He was struck at the emptiness in Roi's gaze, a lack of something that K.T. was used to seeing in everyone he ever spoke with. _What is it?_ the Gangrel wondered. _It's almost as if he's lost all humanity, but not quite._ He shook the thought from his head and instead focused on his duties.

"Then the two of you will meet up with Riddick's pack outside Phillip's bar in uptown," Roi said.

"I know the place," K.T. replied. "You take care of yourself."

"I always do."

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Michelle pulled up outside Phillip's Bar slowly and looked for any sign of her packmates from Damage, Inc. It did not take long to spot DeNiro, Cabbage Patch, and Simeon all standing outside, looking very nervous. The Gangrel jumped out of the Jeep and motioned for Brett to follow, and then walked up quickly to her packmates.

"So how's tricks?" she asked uneasily, already being affected by her friends' obvious anxiety.

"The Sabbat's in town," Simeon answered curtly.

"The city's under siege," Cabbage Patch added, "as if you didn't know already."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Michelle asked nervously. She did not want to even consider what would happen to Johnny's scheme if his anarch pawns figured out what he was up to.

"You gonna tell us you're not part of the Sabbat?" DeNiro asked. "It seems a bit convenient that you showed up right before all the shooting started."

"Guys, I've been running with Damage, Inc. for a couple of years now," Michelle answered. "As I remember it, DeNiro, you and Cabbage Patch are the new blood."

"Your past presence is the only thing that's kept you alive so far," Simeon replied evenly. "We don't like being lied to, Michelle, especially by those we consider friends."

"Is there a problem here?" Brett asked antagonistically as he walked up to the group. All three vampires that had been waiting looked him up and down, each of them obviously noting his larger than average size.

_Great, he looks like a soldier,_ Michelle realized. _I don't know whether that will help us or hurt us right now._ "Guys, I want you to meet a friend of mine," the Gangrel said pleasantly, ignoring the thinly veiled threats that had been directed at her just moments before. "His name's Brett. He's not in the Sabbat any more than I am, but he was in the Army for a few years a while back. I'm sure he could help us."

"You were in the army?" Simeon asked, looking over the newest arrival. "You ever see any action?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss what may or may not have happened during my tour," Brett answered cryptically. He stared at the three anarchs, and then allowed a smile to cross his face, lightening the mood immediately. "All I can really say is that I kicked lots of ass."

"You ever fight the Sabbat before?" Cabbage Patch asked.

"Maybe," Brett answered. "I hear that sometimes they go into cities and make like they're anarchs, and I've fought a fair share of them in my short time as kindred. Michelle called me in to help with a gang she called Damage Control."

"We're thinking they may actually be a Sabbat pack," DeNiro said. "It would certainly explain why they've kicked our ass so hard every time we've fought. They don't fight like a gang of young, inexperienced anarchs."

"Where's Billy?" Cabbage Patch asked.

"Why do you want to know?" Michelle answered defensively. She caught a look in the anarch's eye, something that spoke of a level of interest that made Michelle uneasy. She already had to cope with Yashida's blood-bound childe, Uiko. The last thing she needed was to add another rival for Johnny's affections.

"We wanted to get everyone together and see what we should do," Simeon answered.

"So am I to take it that you suddenly _don't_ think we might be Sabbat?" Michelle answered, "or are you just waiting until you get us all together again."

"No, we're fine with you," Cabbage Patch replied. "Simeon told us that you'd been around for a long time, just that you and Billy usually come and go. DeNiro and I were a little suspicious and wanted to ask you to see how you'd respond. You didn't shoot us, so that's good enough for me."

"Not exactly the most thorough examination of our guilt or innocence," Brett commented.

"We trust Billy and Michelle," Simeon said. "As for you, you'll have to go into a fight and earn trust just like everyone else in the group has. As far as I'm concerned, the jury's still out on you, no matter what Michelle says."

"Just the way I'd expect it to be," Brett answered calmly.

"So where's Billy?" Cabbage Patch asked again, returning to her earlier line of questioning. This time Michelle was certain that there was an unhealthily large flicker of interest in Cabbage Patch's eyes as she said Billy's name.

"He's out and about doing something," Michelle replied evasively, deciding that she would have to keep a close eye on Cabbage Patch when Johnny was around. "He wouldn't tell me what he was up to."

"And you don't find that unusual, considering the circumstances?" Cabbage Patch asked.

"We already went through all that," Simeon interjected impatiently. "Billy Lee is not Sabbat. He's not a spy. He's not an assassin. He's one of the gang. It's not unusual for him to disappear."

"This is the same Billy I met in Los Angeles, right?" Brett asked, turning to Michelle.

_Very nice, very subtle,_ Michelle thought, silently congratulating Brett's ability to mix into the group. _Maybe he's not quite as incompetent as I thought._ "Yeah, during last year's playoff game against the Avalanche," Michelle replied. "We were in town for a night before he moved on to Sacramento."

"He was a pretty cool guy," Brett said. "I was so enraptured with you I hardly even remembered you have a boyfriend."

"Just your wishful thinking, sugar," Michelle answered, laying the act on thick while she tried not to gag.

"So do you think he's up to his usual tricks?" Simeon asked.

"Probably," Michelle replied. She knew that Simeon was referring to Johnny's well-known habit of compulsively stealing one item or another that he found to be attractive. She did not say more, however, since she felt no desire to fill in Cabbage Patch and DeNiro about Yashida's larcenous tendencies.

"So I guess we'll have to do without him on this one," DeNiro said.

"On this one what?" Michelle asked, instantly becoming uneasy.

"We're going to find Damage Control and bring the fight to them," Simeon said. "We want to know whether or not they're Sabbat."

"And you think they'll just tell you?" Brett asked. "I mean, if they're in town and have bothered this much to keep a low profile, what makes you think they'd admit to being Sabbat now?"

"They don't have to admit it; we can catch one and torture it out of him," DeNiro said. No one caught Michelle's uneasy shifting of her feet as they mentioned their plan, a scheme which duplicated Johnny's own from a few nights earlier.

"Hey, it works for me," Brett said. "It's been too long since I got to rough up some assholes."

"Well then, let's gather up the posse," Simeon said. "The others are all waiting inside."

-------------------------------------------------

Johnny Yashida walked into Rick's Cabaret and was instantly greeted by a pair of topless twins that appeared to be in their late teens. Both were blonde, though one had long hair, while the other had it cut at her chin. "It's been a long time, Billy," one of them said immediately. "Where have you been hiding yourself?"

"Here and there," Johnny answered. He had always liked spending time with Cinnamon and Spice, the two Toreador twins that had been strippers in the New Orleans area for almost twenty years. They had originally been embraced in Boston during the twenties, and had then moved to New York to work with Gypsy Rose Lee during the thirties and forties. From there they had moved on across the country, working in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Atlanta, Miami, and anywhere else that was glamorous and full of wealthy men.

Johnny Yashida had met the pair in Los Angeles during his mortal days, and had been friends with them for as long as he could remember. They would often do favors for each other. For the twins, that meant that they could expect to receive beautiful jewelry whenever they ran into their old friend. For Johnny, it meant he would always have a constant source of information in whatever city the women were living.

"I got something for you two," he said slyly, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out two jewelry cases and handed them over. When the women opened them, they were each faced with a diamond encrusted, platinum anklet.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," Cinnamon said, immediately putting the item on her ankle. Spice followed suit, and then sat on Johnny's lap as the Telemon sat down. She kissed his neck softly, making certain that he could smell her short, perfumed hair as he watched her sister perform a table dance right in front of him.

"You do realize that this really doesn't do much for me," Johnny said nonchalantly. "No offense."

"I know," Spice purred into his ear, "but that old man in the corner has been gawking at us for an hour. If he thinks he could get a show like this, he'll be willing to shell out all kinds of cash."

"Well then I'm glad I could be of service," Johnny said with a smile.

"You want anything to drink, Mr. Lee?" a topless waitress asked as she walked over to the table. Johnny knew her well. Her name was Agnes, though she currently went by the stage name of Everything Nice. She was Cinnamon's ghoul, and had traveled with the twins for almost three decades. She was just as beautiful as her master, though in a completely different way. She had long, curly red hair that reached her lower back, and a thin, athletic figure that had been toned by countless hours of dancing and weight training.

"Vodka Martini with extra olives," Johnny said with a smile. Agnes winked one of her sea-green eyes at him in reply, and walked off.

"So what do you need to know?" Spice asked, whispering into Johnny's ear.

"Who may have had not only reason, but also the will and the ability to off the regent?" Johnny asked.

"I figured you'd be asking about the Sabbat," Spice replied. "Isn't that why you're in town?"

"A Sabbat siege has become little more than a tourist attraction for me anymore," Johnny said with a panache that belied his inner unease. "Someone was asking questions about the regent, though, and that seemed like an interesting little mystery."

"A mystery someone apparently will pay to have answered," Spice surmised. "How much you getting?"

"Nothing, at least for now," Johnny said, concealing the complete truth. "But I figure the information would be worth something if I figure out what happened."

"You're probably right," Cinnamon said as she walked over and joined the conversation, rubbing Johnny's shoulders.

"Off the top of my head, I would say that it would be easier to tell you who probably wasn't involved," Spice said. "I don't think the Brujah did it. They're too unorganized to pull it off, and would probably rather just stand around bitching about the regent than actually take the effort to depose him. The Malkavians were rather pleased with the status quo, so I doubt they were involved. As for the Toreador, while there were many that disliked the regent, most of the political power rests with our primogen. I don't know if you've met him yet, but Du Lenne is incompetent. He couldn't have done it without calling in some major favors. Of course, if he had somehow been able to contract an Assamite, anything is possible. Other than that, I think it was open season on the regent. It was simply a question of who would get him first."

"So even his own clan had it in for him?" Johnny asked, surprised that there were Ventrue that would have considered overthrowing a Ventrue prince. It was, of course, possible, but not something that would be common. The Ventrue generally wanted monetary wealth and influence over the mortals. Having one of their own as prince would give the clan all the comfort and stability it needed. Any Ventrue would see how unwise it would be to rock the boat.

"A couple of the older Ventrue had been quietly questioning Ash's decision-making ability lately," Spice replied. "The clans have been able to slice up the city, dividing it into definite spheres of influence. While some, like the Malkavians and anarchs, liked this arrangement, the overly organized Ventrue found it to be a hassle. I don't know if any of them decided the hassle was enough of a reason to go to the trouble of killing the regent, but it's certainly possible."

"And if a Ventrue killed him off so that more order could be imposed, the successor won't necessarily be the same one who killed Ash," Johnny pointed out.

"That would make it very hard to uncover the crime," Cinnamon said.

"You're gonna be careful, right Johnny?" Spice asked. "I mean, Billy," she corrected herself, remembering to use Johnny's assumed name. "If whoever did it figures out you're poking your nose around, you could be next. You'll make powerful enemies quickly if you keep this shit up."

"I'm being as careful as always," Johnny said. "Sorry I have to get going so soon, but I have a couple of other people to meet with tonight before I go and shoot up some Sabbat. You two take it easy, okay?"

"We always do," Spice said with a smile.

-------------------------------------------------

"So you're all back again, eh?" Riddick asked evenly, looking over the members of Damage, Inc. His eyes settled immediately on Brett, appearing to decide that the local anarchs might finally have brought him a worthy challenge.

"We'll keep coming back until we finally put you down," Simeon replied.

"You know, I heard the Sabbat's in town," Riddick said slyly. "Why should we be at each other's throats when they're around? It'll be almost impossible to defeat them as it is."

"As if you're not Sabbat," DeNiro said, even his voice now taking on the tone and menace of Robert De Niro's Vito Corleone. "You think we're gonna believe that for a second? You're just trying to get us to be friends so you can stab us in the back later."

"Stupid fucking anarchs never learn, do they?" Riddick asked, turning to one of his own packmates. The other Sabbat simply shook his head in agreement, all the while maintaining his intimidating stare on his opponents.

Once again, in a flash, the fight was joined as vampires on each side rushed into the fray. Firearms were abandoned in favor of quieter hand-to-hand combat. While the Sabbat had no problem with attracting police attention by shooting their opponents, they had decided instead to stick to hand-to-hand combat, as that would allow for the type of satisfaction that could only be derived by using one's bare hands. Riddick had always taken great pleasure in the feeling of a person's jaw caving in under his fist, and this attitude was spread to the members of his pack. Damage Inc., on the other hand, refrained from using guns simply because they all felt the need to prove to themselves, and their Sabbat foes, that they could win even on the Sabbat's terms.

Brett rushed in against Riddick immediately, hoping to catch the larger man off-guard with his speed. To the Telemon's surprise, however, Riddick proved to be a slight step faster, despite his size. Riddick dodged the first punch, sidestepped to his left, and landed a crushing blow into Brett's kidney. The pain sent Brett's right leg out from under him, but his battle-hardened instincts prevented the situation from getting worse. Rather than providing the open target that Riddick had gotten used to with his constant combat against untrained anarchs, Brett swung his partially stunned leg out toward his opponent, sweeping the Sabbat soldier's legs out from under him. The Telemon then rolled backward and leaped to his feet. In a flash he was lunging at his opponent again, but Riddick had already regained his composure and prepared himself once more.

Brett's right-handed punch was parried and grabbed with Riddick's right hand, and the large Sabbat pack-leader directed his own counter-strike at Brett's elbow, knowing he would break the arm at the joint. In a blur of motion, Brett caught Riddick's left arm at the wrist, and then took a step back with his left leg, pivoting his weight around his right leg as he swung Riddick over in a hip toss, sending the Sabbat pack leader to the ground. Riddick, unprepared for the throw, landed hard on his right shoulder, dislocating the joint and immobilizing the arm.

Before Riddick could recover, Brett had drawn his knife and was lunging in again at his vulnerable opponent, hoping to draw blood and turn the tide of the battle. The Telemon could see that several of his allies were not faring as well as he was, and he hoped that knocking Riddick out of the fight would cause the rest of the Sabbat pack to question whether or not they should continue without their leader.

From a nearby shadow, K.T. could hear the sounds all around him. People were running. Fighting. Bleeding. Perhaps even dying. Damage, Inc. had apparently located Damage Control, and the inevitable confrontation had followed. The anarchs would fight to defend their turf, while the Sabbat would seek to exact vengeance for the loss of one of its members in the last battle. The Gangrel stepped lightly around a corner of a building and brought the scene into play. Two of Damage Control were beating another vampire in the street, leaving a pool of blood flowing from what K.T. guessed was a fractured skull. Riddick was being hard-pressed, but his packmates were doing quite well for themselves. The mercenary knew his Sabbat associates were faring fine enough in back of the closed deli, and so he moved down the block where he heard another fight going on.

A bestial snarl echoed from the darkness as he rounded another corner, and he could just slightly make out a small woman hunched over a far larger man. She was just beginning to bite into his neck. K.T. looked more closely and recognized Chavez, one of the Sabbat that had accompanied him into the streets that night. He knew that the Sabbat soldier had been defeated, but that he was probably still alive. _At least until that bitch gets finished with him,_ he thought grimly.

The Gangrel had a clear shot and slowly raised his Ruger Redhawk, simultaneously growing his hands into razor-sharp claws. His plan was simple – he would shoot the woman off of her prey, and then tear her in half with his own bare hands. That would be the only way to make certain that she was finished. With a flash of light and a blast that rivaled the loudest clap of thunder, he shot his victim and followed the bullet right at the woman, meaning to rip out her heart before she could react. It was a tactic at which the mercenary had gotten quite proficient. He had certainly employed it enough times over the decades.

He was on her in a heartbeat, although she was standing sooner than he had anticipated. _She seems stronger than a simple anarch,_ his mind shouted in warning. He had already come too far too fast, and could not stop himself. He saw the gun being raised as he got within arm's reach. Only a fraction of a second remained to make the decision – try to disarm his opponent, or continue the attack? The decision was simple, and instinctive. The gun being leveled at him was a 9mm, little more than a popgun to one as solid as he was. K.T. would not be diverted from his goal of destroying his opponent. He ignored the cracking report from the gun as it was fired, and the slight jolts of pain as two bullets entered his body. Instead, he made certain he cut deeply with his left claw, spilling blood and intestines onto the ground as his opponent collapsed, obviously defeated. He kicked her over onto her back, straddled her, and raised his left hand to finish the job.

_Oh no,_ he gasped, having finally gotten the woman's face away from the shadows long enough to get a good look. _I know her._ Without another word he clubbed her over the head with the butt of the revolver in his right hand, knocking her unconscious, and hoisted her onto his shoulder. As he bolted from the battle, he fought back his surprise, and what it meant. He had almost killed Michelle Marlowe, whom he knew to be Johnny Yashida's blood-bound Gangrel companion. Where she was, he was rarely far behind. Without even thinking about it, K.T. knew that the Telemon had probably been employed by the Camarilla to oppose the siege in which he was taking part. _I don't know what I'm going to do about this._

The gunshots fired by K.T. and Michelle seemed to have set off a chain reaction. It sounded as if both groups opened up with firearms of their own. The Gangrel heard the rapid fire of an automatic shotgun, and knew that Erica had apparently decided to become involved; he knew it would only be minutes before police were swarming over the area. This time, the Sabbat pack had earned itself a solid victory. They had managed to kill Ghetto Blaster, and Damage, Inc. would soon find that Michelle had turned up missing. Though he had finally found an unexpectedly formidable foe in the local anarch population, Riddick would certainly be satisfied.

**III**

"Johnny!" Brett called as he walked into the Telemon haven.

"What is it?" Yashida asked as he walked forward from the back room. He could hear the sense of urgency in Brett's voice, and Johnny's instincts made his stomach start to tie itself up in knots. As soon as he came face to face with Brett, Yashida knew what was wrong – Michelle was not there. "Where is she?" he asked immediately.

"No one knows," Brett replied evenly, not bothering to hide the fact that he did not view Michelle's disappearance as a major catastrophe. "We fought that gang called Damage Control. What started out as a good old-fashioned knock-down drag-out turned into a total cluster fuck. We started out badly, and then the tide turned and we actually started to win. Then that clown Cabbage Patch pulled out a pistol and started firing. The next thing you know, they open up with Uzis. I'd guess you were right, they're a Sabbat pack."

"So she disappeared," Johnny replied, ignoring Brett's report on the battle. He already knew that Damage Control was a Sabbat pack and had no need to get Brett's agreement.

"That's what I said," Brett answered, his voice once again devoid of any apparent concern.

"Where did you last see her?" Johnny asked as he walked across the room. He opened a small footlocker and pulled out an MP-5 and three double magazines.

"What are you doing?" Brett asked suspiciously as he watched Johnny then pull out a double-barrel shotgun and place what he knew were phosphorous shells inside the weapon.

"I'm going to find her," Johnny answered.

"No you're not," Brett stated emphatically. "We have a job to do here. I don't need you going out on some vendetta, making things personal."

"We were hired to kill Sabbat," Johnny said smoothly, doing a surprisingly good job of containing his rage. "That's all I'll be doing. This is not personal." He knew the words were a lie even as he spoke them, and he also knew that Brett would likely not believe any of it. He hoped, though, that Brett would at least relent and let him go back out onto the streets.

"This is irrational, Johnny," Brett said. "For all we know, she just ran off in another direction and is only minutes away from walking through the door."

"She would have called," Johnny said, knowing that his words were not certain to be accurate. Michelle had been known to wander off on occasion and not report in immediately.

"She might not be able to," Brett retorted. "Besides, it's not as easy as just going out there and getting our hands on some Sabbat. We still don't know where they are."

"I'll fix that," Johnny said venomously. He turned away from Brett and walked back toward the rear of the building. He opened the door to Uiko's interrogation room and looked over the Sabbat prisoner.

"Anything yet?" he asked. His hope that Uiko had been able to get information was quickly dashed, however, as Uiko shook her head, a slightly frustrated look spreading across her face. "Enough games," he spat at the prisoner. "You're going to tell me what I want to know, or I'm going to get mean."

"What is this, good cop, bad cop time?" the Sabbat asked. "You're not impressing me."

"What are you doing, Johnny?" Brett asked, finally arriving in the back room.

"Getting answers," Johnny answered. He looked directly at the eyes of his prisoner, and began to exert his will over that of the Sabbat. "Where is the pack hiding?"

"That's not going to help much," Brett commented. "Domination isn't all that useful in interrogation." Brett Tailor watched Johnny used the vampiric discipline of Domination, an ability that allows its user to affect the minds of others. Its purpose was designed primarily to give orders, and not derive responses, so it was generally considered as having little value in an interrogation setting. Had Johnny met up with this same Sabbat soldier in a bar and used the power quickly, before his target could steel himself against the attempt, Yashida might have met with more immediate success. Here, however, the likelihood of deriving useful information in a short time was small.

"Just give me a second," Johnny replied. He knew that the vampiric discipline of Domination had its limits as well as anyone else did. He would be able to overpower the mind of his prisoner, and he could force truthful answers to his questions. However, the power was not absolute. The Sabbat soldier would still have enough control of his own mind to be as evasive as he wanted to be. "Where are they?" he asked again.

"New Orleans," the prisoner replied with a thin smile. Johnny almost cursed when he saw the prisoner's face. The Sabbat vampire's eyes were as glazed over as one would expect, but the smile let on that it was more than his subconscious that was resisting the attempted domination. The fact that his conscious mind was strong enough to also play a role meant only one thing – this man had been trained to resist this very type of interrogation. Yashida could hardly believe his bad luck.

"Where in New Orleans?" Johnny then asked, trying to narrow down the possibilities.

"In a house, I would guess," the prisoner answered vaguely. "Maybe an apartment, or even a hotel room. My god, if they're out on the streets, they could be almost anywhere at this very minute."

"This isn't going to get us anywhere," Brett muttered.

"He's right, Johnny," Uiko said. "He'll be as evasive as possible. It might take all night just to get a single useful nugget of information.

"Then we'll take all night," Johnny spat back.

"He has to want to give up the information," Uiko replied. "You know that. Don't let your emotions guide your actions. You've reminded me of that countless times."

"You're right," Johnny mumbled, finally backing away from the Sabbat prisoner. "Let me know when he finally decides to give something up."

"We don't have time for that," Brett replied. "There's a war going on out there, and we have very few people. I need Uiko out on the streets, not playing games here with our guest. Just kill him, and we'll focus our energies out in the field." Uiko looked toward her sire, as if she was waiting for confirmation of Brett's order. Yashida could see the influence of his training on her. She knew she had not yet been released, and that she was still, essentially, Johnny's property and responsibility. She would not take a single order from Brett Tailor until her own sire first confirmed it.

"Fine, kill him," Johnny said to Uiko. She nodded, and drove a stake into her prisoner's heart, sending him into torpor. Yashida walked back out toward the front of the building, followed by Brett. "I'll wait until tomorrow night," Johnny said evenly. "If Michelle's not back within an hour of sundown, I'm going out there. They'll regret ever seeing her."

"Fine," Brett answered. "We'll get organized tonight. I have a report to write up about the battle earlier, and I'll need you to fill me in on everything that's happened so far."

"It's all in my reports," Johnny replied. "If you have any questions after that, then talk to me." Without another word, Yashida walked to his room on the second floor. He spent the rest of the night poring over each one of his weapons, making certain that every single one was perfectly cleaned, oiled, and ready for action. He had not been so enraged in years, and he could hardly wait for the opportunity to vent his frustrations.

**IV**

K.T. stared across the hotel room at the prisoner lying bound and gagged on the bed. Michelle had turned her head away as soon as she realized that K.T. had no intention of simply returning her to her friends. She knew K.T. and was aware K.T. knew her. Beyond that, however, she knew nothing.

With a flick of his wrist, K.T. produced a cell phone in his hand and dialed Erica's number. "Where are you right now?" he asked, as soon as she answered.

"Back at the B&B," she replied immediately. "Where are you? You didn't come back after the fight."

"I'm aware of that," K.T. grumbled.

"When are you coming back?" she asked, her voice betraying a bit of concern.

"Anytime now," he lied. "I just have a couple of things to take care of first." K.T. had already decided to stay in the hotel guarding over Michelle, but he had no intention of letting Erica know that. He was afraid that she would go out with some Sabbat soldiers if she knew he would be out until the next night. K.T. wanted Erica safe, where he could be reasonably certain that she would not be open to further unwanted influence. He would simply call her back just before sunrise to let her know he would sleep elsewhere during the day. "I want you to look over that new folder that Roi sent over."

"Sure thing," Erica answered. "We hitting the place tonight?"

"No," K.T. replied. "We don't have enough time before the sun comes up. Go over everything thoroughly, though," he added, making sure she would have enough work to keep her busy for the rest of the night. "I want three escape routes to two miles out. I also want you to strip down that AK that Roi sent over and clean it down completely."

"We using the AK?" Erica asked excitedly. K.T. could just imagine the look on her face.

"Maybe," the mercenary lied again. "It could come in handy if anyone starts chasing us." In actuality, he would not consider using an AK-47 in the streets unless it was a life or death situation, but he saw no reason to let Erica know that, either. The extra chore would keep her that much busier.

"I'll get right on that," Michelle said. "It could take me the rest of the night though."

_I know_, K.T. thought with satisfaction. "Just make sure you get it all right," he said encouragingly, keeping his thoughts to himself. "I'll see you in a little bit." With another flick of the wrist he had placed the phone back within an inside pocket of his duster and went back to looking at his prisoner.

_What should I do with her?_ he wondered. _Obviously, she should die. I was hired to kill the city's defenders, and she's a defender. Why am I even thinking about this?_ He stood up and walked over toward the window, glancing absently through the glass into the dark night. A United cab sped by on the street below, and a motorcycle flew by in the opposite direction on Tulane Avenue. _It's not because I know her,_ he told himself, returning once again to his thoughts. _I've killed countless people I know. Why should this be any different?_

He turned from the window, pulling the drapes back across the glass, and gazed back at his bound clanmate on the bed. Michelle kept the back of her head turned toward her captor, as if she had no interest in anything he was doing. K.T. knew that the truth of the matter was probably the exact opposite of her demeanor. He knew Michelle had been in many tough situations by Yashida's side and had faced death before. She would know enough to realize how precarious her situation was.

_Yashida,_ K.T. mused, wondering if his Telemon friend was the reason for his hesitation to killed Michelle. _Do I care enough about him to refrain from killing his companion, even though that's what I'm here for?_ The very thought seemed absurd, but K.T. considered it anyway. He had fought alongside Johnny several times, and the two had shared trade secrets. He remembered something he had heard about soldiers, about the special, indescribable bond that people shared when they faced death together. _Is that what's going on?_ he wondered. _Could vampires even form such an attachment?_

He shook his head, thinking the concept dubious, if not absurd. There were several people he could think of immediately that he had fought beside and still would not hesitate to kill. Then a new, disturbing thought occurred to him. _It's Erica,_ he decided. _I see some of Erica in Michelle. I know how I would feel if Johnny killed my companion, and now I'm hesitating to do the same. I'm empathizing._ The realization hit K.T. like a ton of bricks. He was a mercenary – a cold-blooded, heartless, unfeeling machine. He could not refrain from killing people he knew. He could not hesitate at the thought that his own companion could also be killed. Empathy had no place in the heart of a professional soldier.

He looked at Michelle again. She was a small woman, and cute in her own way. He shook his head again, trying to shake any feelings of sentiment from his mind. _What the hell is wrong with you?_ he asked himself. _Sentiment?_ He thought for a moment, seriously considering his feelings. _Is that it, or is it something else?_ A wave of insight came over him as he realized that it was not simply sentiment. It might be weakness, but it was a weakness he had always thought about.

He glanced across the room, seeing the saddlebag he had brought in with him. _Enough of all this crap,_ he decided suddenly. He knew what he had to do as he stormed over and started digging into the bag for what he needed.

_To be continued……………………………………_


	5. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 4

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

**-----------------------------------------------------------**

CHAPTER 4

**I**

Johnny Yashida walked into Fat Harry's slowly, scanning the bar for anyone who might launch an attack. He saw no one pay any undue attention to his entrance, and so walked further into the room, allowing his eyes to pass briefly over the young blonde tending bar and the middle-aged man who was busy hitting on her while ordering a beer. The sight would usually have provided a moment of amusement for the small Telemon, but not tonight. He was in the neighborhood college bar for only one purpose – he had come to find out what had happened to Michelle Marlowe. Despite his tense mood, he unconsciously put a spring in his step as the opening chords of Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" began to play on the jukebox, inciting a squeal of delight from a young college girl in the corner.

Yashida had no idea who had sent the note informing him that Michelle was still alive, but something inside his head assured him that he would know whoever it was he would be meeting. The message had contained no threats, no demands, and no offers of alliance. It had simply said _"Billy-- Come to Fat Harry's at midnight to get Michelle back."_ It almost sounded like a message one would get from a neighbor when his dog escaped again from the backyard and needed to be returned.

Johnny walked down a short hall into the rear section of the bar. The scent of frying bacon passed gently under his nose, reminding him that he had yet to eat. Once again, as with the man and bartender in the front, the extraneous thought was forced from his mind. He turned right around the corner, and his eyes settled upon the last person he had expected to find in a city under Sabbat siege.

"I assume it was you that sent the note," Johnny muttered instantly, focusing in on K.T.

"If it were anyone else, you'd probably be dead already," K.T. answered evenly. "You shouldn't have come to New Orleans, Yashida."

"I was about to say the same thing to you," Johnny responded. For the briefest of moments, Johnny had the strange sense that he was being watched, and he looked into K.T.'s eyes for any sign that he had walked into a trap. There was nothing. _Not that I would definitely be able to pick up on any deception, anyway,_ Yashida pondered gloomily. _This guy's been a hired gun for longer than I've been alive._

"If I had it to do again, I probably wouldn't have come," K.T. admitted. The Gangrel was racking balls for a game of pool on the less worn of two pool tables in the back room, and motioned for Johnny to break. The Telemon simply shook his head, letting his associate know that he was there only for business. "You know, I'm still trying to figure out why I didn't kill her," K.T. commented, not minding how his friend took the news. He walked around the table and had already lined up his shot to break by the time Johnny replied.

"So she's still alive?" Johnny asked.

"For now."

"So is this a negotiation, or are you going to give her back without trying to use her as leverage to get a favor?" the Telemon asked. He kept his demeanor calm, not wanting to let K.T. have an edge. Johnny knew he was vulnerable. He wanted desperately to get his companion back and would go to virtually any length to ensure her safety, but he knew keeping that fact to himself was probably the best way to keep Michelle alive.

"I haven't decided yet," K.T. answered truthfully. He immediately saw Johnny's anxiety and irritation and began to wonder whether Yashida had allowed himself to become blood-bound to his Gangrel companion. The mercenary had no trouble imagining Johnny blood-bonding all those around him without giving up any of his own independence. Giving up control, on the other hand, was not something K.T. would have expected. For a brief moment he wondered how he would be behaving if his and Johnny's situations were reversed, but he immediately fought to push the thought from his mind. He could not honestly be certain he would be holding himself together as well as Johnny was. Then again, given his own well-honed combat skills, he would have less reason to remain composed and passive.

"Well I'd really rather not fight you for her," Johnny admitted. "But I'll tell ya, I don't see myself easily leaving without her." He hoped the thinly veiled threat would accomplish his goal of combining menace with professionalism.

"I want you to leave the city," K.T. said suddenly, ignoring Johnny's restrained show of bravado. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you or Michelle. As much as I've avoided getting to know anyone, I seem to have gotten comfortable with you as an associate."

"Our services have been bought and paid for, as I'm sure yours have been as well," Johnny said simply. "I can't leave any more easily than you could. It wouldn't be good for my reputation, or the reputation of my clan."

"Yeah, reputation," the Gangrel muttered. "I went decades without worrying about my reputation. I would kill anyone, anywhere, anytime. For a price, that is," he added, almost as an afterthought, as he lined up a shot on the seven-ball and sent it into the corner. "Mercenaries were uncomfortable working with me, since they never knew which side I would be on the next time. Employers were uneasy hiring someone they might have trouble controlling. Once in awhile one of the old-timers would tell me that I should straighten up and fly right, that I should at least develop respect for fellow professionals. I figured they could go to hell."

"No offense, K.T. but do you have a point here?" Johnny asked. The Gangrel noted Johnny's steadily increasing tension, and silently marked a point in the column supporting the conclusion that Johnny was blood-bound to Michelle.

"Give me a second," K.T. said angrily. "I'm trying to explain myself." He turned and glared at Johnny for a moment, and then looked back at the pool table and smoothly sank the three-ball off the rail. _Maybe talking all this shit out will help me get it straight in my own head,_ the Gangrel hoped. There was no one else in the city he could feasibly get to listen. Johnny Yashida was, unfortunately, the closest thing that K.T. had to a friend, and he knew it. _Of course, as fate would have it, my one friend is fighting on the other side._ K.T. shook his head as a new thought occurred to him. _Maybe it wasn't fate at all. Maybe someone actually planned this. Some old Gangrel motherfucker who loves seeing me jump through his hoops._ The mercenary dismissed the thought as quickly as he had entertained it. He could not imagine any way that Philip could have arranged for the Telemon to arrive in the city, and he saw no true advantage to be gained by having himself fight against the young mercenary clan.

"I guess that lately I'm a little more aware of what other people think about me," K.T. continued. Yashida silently decided that the current change in K.T.'s personality was due in large part to Erica, but he made certain he kept the thought to himself as he waited to see if K.T. had finished. "Not that I really care all that much about image, but at least I notice now," K.T. clarified. "What I'm saying is this – due to the fact that I've worked with you, and because you are also a mercenary, I'll give you the professional courtesy of not going out of my way to kill you."

"Thanks," Johnny said gruffly. "So where does that leave us?"

"I'll be more than willing to fill you with bullet holes if I see you around," K.T. said. "And I expect you would do the same. I mean, that is the job, after all. But I won't rip your head off with my bare hands if I can avoid it. I'll put you down, but I won't kill you."

"Fine, then I won't kill you," Johnny replied. K.T. only smiled, as if he found Johnny's statement amusing, and then he sank the five-ball. "And what about Michelle?"

"I won't kill her either," K.T. said. "And I expect that you won't snuff Erica."

"Of course," Johnny answered. He did not continue, but he also did not need to. He had been assured that Michelle would be safe, and that was all he needed to hear. Despite the fact that he knew just how formidable a warrior K.T. Corben was, Johnny found himself relaxing a slight bit.

"As for the rest of your clan, all bets are off," K.T. continued. "I don't know them, and they don't know me. I don't think my new trial policy of professional courtesy should necessarily apply to people I don't know."

"So are you saying we're, like, friends or something?" Johnny asked with a mischievous smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat jealous.

"Don't push it," K.T. responded. "Like I said, this is just something I'm trying out. I can't guarantee I won't change my mind before the siege is over."

"I expect you'll at least warn me if you've decided to kill me," Johnny surmised.

"Probably," K.T. replied evenly. "I'll let you know after I shoot you, but before I rip your heart out." Johnny was about to smile at the Gangrel's joke when he noticed that K.T.'s eyes held no mirth. Yashida realized his associate was completely serious, and reminded himself that he was dealing with a very dangerous man, a professional mercenary who, at least until recently, had known no friends or loyalties.

"So where's Michelle?" Johnny asked, deciding that he would be best served by gathering up his companion and getting to a safe area as soon as possible.

"There's a van parked out front," K.T. said. "She's tied up in the back."

"And how do I know that the van's not rigged to blow up?" Johnny asked.

"I guess you'll just have to trust me," K.T. said grimly. "Now get your ass out of here. Some of my Sabbat contacts are due to show up soon, and I can't decide whether it would be worse for you to be caught here, or for me to be found talking to you."

Yashida walked out without another word, and a moment later K.T. put down his pool cue and walked to the front room to play some music on the jukebox, hoping desperately that 'Little Wing' was somewhere in the machine. The Gangrel could hardly believe he had said so much to someone he did not know too well. Giving Yashida that much insight had cost K.T. a slight bit of his one greatest advantage – the mystery that surrounded him. Those who knew him – including all of his most questionable alliances, assassinations, and atrocities – would never have thought that K.T. had anything remaining that resembled a heart, or even a soul. Now the secret was out. K.T. had a shred of humanity remaining, after all. He just hoped that Yashida kept that information to himself. It would never do to have word get out that a mercenary had gotten a heart.

Neither man noticed a barely audible chuckle as they left the back of the bar. _Ah, Philip, I wonder how you'll react when you hear your pet Gangrel has gone soft,_ Hassan wondered silently. _Gone is the mindless, heartless killer you wanted. Now you have a seasoned warrior with a slowly developing code of honor. How will you possibly adjust to such an embarrassing predicament?_

**II**

"I need soldiers, not nursemaids!" Brett shouted at Johnny. For his part, Yashida was unimpressed. He simply nodded once toward his commanding officer, and then turned back toward Michelle.

The Gangrel winced as Johnny removed her hastily applied bandages, revealing a gaping wound in her abdomen. "He wasn't messing around, was he?" Johnny asked softly. Michelle shook her head in response, and lay back on the bed. The pain was almost more than she could bear, but she grit her teeth and resolved not to make so much as a whimper. As long as Brett was in the room, she would not show weakness.

"I'm serious, Johnny," Brett said again, his tone becoming slightly menacing.

"I'll go with you when I'm certain I've done all I can for her," Yashida said, finally responding to his fellow Telemon's voice.

"Last I heard, I'm in command here," Brett shot back, "and that means I decide when we do or don't go back out there. I say we go now. She's not a human. She's in no danger of dying. Just make sure she has enough blood and leave her to heal her own wounds.

"I'm just trying to make sure she's comfortable," Johnny replied. "There's no harm in that."

"It's unnecessary," Brett stated. "We're soldiers. We can take the pain."

"She's a scout, not a soldier," Johnny answered. "Besides, I would take this time even if it were you on the floor."

"I would not allow it," Brett said stoically. "I can handle pain."

"I know," Johnny murmured, "and Michelle can handle it just as well. She'd be fine if we left her here. Still, you just don't get it."

"Get what?" Brett asked antagonistically.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," Johnny asked formally.

"Granted," Brett replied without skipping a beat.

"Then come with me," Johnny instructed, striding quickly from the room and walking into the empty kitchen. Speaking freely was one thing, but being insubordinate, as he was planning, was something else entirely. Yashida knew better than to allow an audience for what he was about to say. "You make a poor commanding officer," Johnny said evenly, carefully watching Brett's reaction. Yashida did not know for sure how the other Telemon would take his verbal attack, so he felt it best to keep his eyes on his clanmate.

"Just shows how little you know," Brett answered. "If you had been at that rumble last night, you would have seen. Your precious little group of anarchs has never done anything but get their asses kicked by that Sabbat pack. Last night was different. We were winning."

"I don't doubt it at all," Johnny said. "You're an excellent soldier and an above-average strategist."

"You just said I was a poor commanding officer," Brett replied. "Why don't you make up your mind?"

"In the field, you are everything a commander should be," Johnny clarified, "but you are no leader." He watched Brett's reaction closely, attempting to see if his clanmate understood. The befuddled look on Brett's face made it clear that Johnny would have to continue his explanation. "You were sent here to learn to lead," Johnny said.

"No, I was sent here to get experience in the field," Brett clarified sharply. "Siras feels I am ready to lead. He just wants me to get some practical training."

"If that were truly how Siras felt, then he would be wrong," Johnny replied. "But I assure you, that is _not_ how Siras feels. Anyone embraced into the clan is a capable soldier," Yashida continued. "Except for me, that is," he added with a grin. "Haven't you ever wondered why you were chosen for leadership when others were not? The clan has been growing well enough lately. It's not like we're hurting for people, although some of our best were lost in San Francisco."

"I'm simply one of the best now," Brett said, feeling his straightforward explanation resolved the issue.

"In combat?" Johnny asked. "Perhaps," he continued, answering his own question before Brett could. "The Telemon clan is about more than kicking ass, though. This is supposed to be an army in and of itself. Knowing how to kick ass is not enough to lead – that's true whether you're mortal or kindred. If Siras sends more people down here, those soldiers will follow your commands because they have been told to do so. The Telemon are about obedience and discipline, after all. But simply getting people to follow your orders is not enough to make you truly great."

"And I suppose you think you know what would make a truly great commander," Brett said sarcastically. "I can't believe I'm even listening to this."

"That's part of your problem," Johnny shot back angrily. He could see his sudden change of mood threw Brett back on his heels, so Johnny continued with his verbal assault before his superior could form a reply. "You don't see a reason to listen. All good commanders listen, it's part of the job. Siras always listened to me, and then Matt did the same. Siras has also always listened to Marcus, just as Matt listened to Magnus. Advice is valuable, and different perspectives can lead you to new answers."

"This is an army," Brett said. "We cannot afford the luxury of giving everyone a voice. The commander makes the calls, and everyone else obeys. To do otherwise would lead to a breakdown of discipline. On the battlefield, that could mean the end of all of us."

"On the battlefield," Johnny pointed out. "That's true enough, and on the battlefield, I would never even think of questioning an order. No more than you would. But this is not a battlefield, Brett. This is a time for thought and discussion." Yashida saw a strange look in Brett's eyes, something akin to gradual enlightenment, and so he pressed on, hoping to drive his point home. "Generals have meetings with their subordinates, Brett. You should know that. They ask for advice and alternate views. Our clan is small and generally operates in small units. With such an organization, it's possible for you to ask us our individual opinions and then come to a decision. As you said, once a decision is made and that order given, your subordinates are to follow without question. You're trying to play the role of tyrant, and that won't fly in this clan. You might get everyone to follow you, but sooner or later you'll overlook a point that perhaps someone else might have seen, and you'll get yourself and your entire unit killed." Johnny watched Brett for several minutes, and could almost swear he saw smoke coming from his clanmate's ears as he worked through everything that Yashida had said.

"You're right," Brett finally replied. "So, do you have any opinions?" The words were spoken hesitantly, as if just saying them made Brett feel awkward.

"I already made my opinion plain," Johnny answered. "You're a bad commanding officer."

"How?" Brett asked, his voice suddenly hinting at rage. "You wanted me to ask for opinions, and I have. What more do you want from me?"

"I want you to care about your subordinates," Johnny shot back. Johnny could hardly believe that he had been able to get Brett's mind to open enough to ask for advice, and he seriously doubted that he would now be able to make any other changes in his commander's policies. Still, he felt he needed to try. "There are many types of commanders, Brett," Johnny said calmly, trying to take the same fatherly tone he had always used with Matt. To his shock and amazement, the change seemed to make a difference, and Brett seemed to relax, to absorb what Johnny was saying.

"On one extreme, you have situations like General Custer," Johnny began. "He led his troops out onto the field only to have them butchered at Little Bighorn. They all followed because they had to, though you can be sure that there were a few who had a very good idea what they might be getting themselves into. He commanded absolute obedience. Is that enough, as far as you're concerned?"

"If Custer had won that battle, everything would be different," Brett pointed out. "His failure as a general is based on his defeat on the battleground and his recklessness in strategy. It has nothing to do with his troop's attitude toward him."

"Then forget Custer," Johnny said quickly, having to admit silently that he had erred in his choice of an example. Still, he would not concede defeat. He did not know too much about military history, but he did know enough to make his point. "How about Julius Caesar?"

"What about him?" Brett asked curiously. "He wasn't a loser, like Custer. Caesar won just about everywhere he went."

"Including Rome," Johnny said evenly.

"What's your point?" Brett asked curtly.

"Caesar's troops were loyal enough not only to die on the field for him, but to openly revolt against their own home, thus throwing away all that they had held dear before joining the legions. They followed Caesar not simply because he was the general, because they were expected to. They followed because they _wanted_ to."

"Enjoying one's commander is not a luxury a soldier can expect," Brett pointed out.

"True," Johnny agreed, "but let me tell you this – I will follow you, since that is my duty, but don't ever believe that I do so because I want to. I am simply doing my duty, and no more."

"Fine," Brett answered.

"Fine?" Johnny asked incredulously. The smaller Telemon felt as if he had just been punched in the gut. When he had heard Brett was being assigned to New Orleans, Johnny had held out a little hope for the young commander. He knew that Brett was capable, and thought he might make a good leader. Now, however, he was not so sure. "I thought you were beginning to understand, but you proved me wrong."

"How so?" Brett asked, his tone making it apparent that he did not care overly much about Yashida's opinion.

"I told you I would do my duty, and no more," Johnny pointed out, "and you said 'fine.' But that's not fine. You should want to get as much out of me as possible. A great general has subordinates that do not simply do what is required, but who go above and beyond the call of duty. Your goal should not be to command simple obedience, but rather to inspire fanatical loyalty and service. We're fighting the Sabbat, Brett. Simple obedience won't cut it here."

"I see your point," Brett said sheepishly. "I know what you're saying, Johnny. I really do. But I don't think great leaders can be made. They can only be born. I don't have the kind of charisma that you're talking about. I know my strengths and weaknesses."

"That's a good start," Johnny interjected.

"I'm not finished," Brett said quickly. "I know my strengths and weaknesses, and I know strategy and combat are strengths, and leadership is a weakness. I can command, but I don't do an overly great job of leading. At least not the way you described it. I'm no Caesar."

"You can at least make an attempt," Johnny said calmly, trying to hide his shock at Brett's statements. Johnny had had no idea that Brett had been trying to be a better leader, and that he felt he was inadequate.

"How?" Brett asked. "I had this same exact conversation with Marcus… you know how everyone likes him, how they all look up to him. No one's ever been that way with me; I told him that I was unsure of my ability to lead, but he said to give it a try. He told me Matt had the same doubts before he went out to San Francisco, but that he had quickly found himself to be not only a good administrator and commander, but also a leader."

"Yes, he was," Johnny agreed, feeling another pang in his heart at the mention of Matt. Sometimes Johnny felt he would never get over the death of his favorite childe.

"You taught him, didn't you?" Brett asked suspiciously.

"I don't know what you mean," Johnny replied. "I can no more make a better soldier of someone than Michelle could."

"It's like the anarchs," Brett explained. "I heard them talking about you. They follow Simeon, but they would follow you instead if you wanted to lead. You inspire them to want to follow. You have that elusive type of charisma that a great leader needs. You know how to get people to follow willingly, and you taught Matt how get people to do it, too."

"Not really," Johnny explained, finally deciding he may yet have a chance of making Brett an excellent leader. "See, there's no formula for what you want to do. You can't simply read a book on being a great leader and expect miracles."

"Is there anything I can do?" Brett asked, a surprising hint of desperation in his voice. "I know that Siras and Marcus have high hopes for me here, and I don't want to let them down. I want to be everything they seem to think I can be."

"Then care," Johnny said simply. "Not just about what Marcus and Siras think, but about what your own subordinates think. Care about how they feel about not only you, but also themselves and their situation."

"What do you mean?" Brett asked.

"Michelle is the perfect example," Johnny explained. "Just like you said, she doesn't need any kind of medical care. Sure, her abdomen is ripped open, but she'll heal that in a matter of days. The bandages don't really help much at all. She's kindred, so it's not like she's going to get an infection, or anything. Sure, she's in pain, but that'll go away soon enough. Then she'll be as good as new, and she'll be thrown in the meat-grinder to follow your newest commands. We don't need to do anything to get her back into action. We only need to wait."

"So what's your point?"

"Care," Johnny answered. "Care about Michelle. She is, in theory at least, one of your soldiers. She told me about that blowup you and she had on the way in from the airport. I know she doesn't plan on following your orders. I also know that I will be following your orders, and that where I go, she'll usually follow. She can protest all she wants, but in essence, she'll fight the battles for you." Brett smiled thinly with Johnny's words, revealing that he had already reached the same conclusions. "Do you think your attitude toward her in there is going to help her want to serve you, though?" Johnny continued, reminding Brett of his callous attitude toward Michelle's wounds. "It's like we were saying before. She'll do what's required, but no more. If we all get gunned down in a building that starts to burn, do you think she would risk her neck to pull your body out?"

"No," Brett admitted.

"I don't think so, either," Johnny agreed. "But if you show you care about her as more than a combat asset, then she'll start to see you as more than a commander. She'll see you as a friend, and people do more for friends than they do for superiors."

"Just care?" Brett asked dubiously. "That's it?"

"Well, there's actually a little more to it than that, but if you genuinely care, then everything else will follow. If you fake it, it won't work. If you really care, then you'll be fine."

"I'll try," Brett said. "Go on back and finish patching up Michelle. Get her anything she needs, but try to hurry. We really have to get back out there soon, and we have a bit to talk about before doing any fighting."

"Such as?" Johnny asked, already suspecting the answer, but still hoping that the conversation could be avoided.

"I want to know who did that to Michelle, and why they would give her back," Brett said, confirming Johnny's fears. Yashida had hoped to avoid the topic of K.T., but now it seemed he would be forced to come clean about his associate.

**III**

"Where were you this evening, K.T.?" Roi asked smoothly as the Gangrel walked into the Superior Grille and sat at the table the bishop and his Templar had in the corner. "We were to meet at Fat Harry's, and you weren't there. One of the doormen told me that a man fitting your description had been there but left moments before I arrived."

_Here it comes,_ K.T. thought. _He knows I was talking to Johnny, and he won't take long to put two and two together._ The mercenary wanted to steal a glance toward the doorway, to make certain he had a clear route over which he could flee. He restrained himself, however, knowing that Roi would see the action and realize that K.T. was planning to run. _And if by some miracle Roi doesn't notice, his bodyguard certainly will,_ K.T. realized. He looked away from the bishop and at his Templar once again, the large man's face not betraying any hint of emotion or thought.

"Yeah, I was there," K.T. confirmed, knowing that Roi had likely reached that conclusion anyway. "Your supposedly secure location was less secure than you thought, though. There was an anarch in there." K.T. threw in the information about Johnny, not willing to make the omission in case Roi had heard that K.T. had been speaking with someone.

"Really, an anarch?" Roi asked curiously, leaning toward K.T. as he spoke. "I didn't see any signs of anarchs."

"Maybe he left before you got there," K.T. offered, feeling more uncomfortable with every passing second. He was getting the definite feeling that Roi was waiting to catch him in a lie, just so he could have the mercenary killed. _Of course, enforcing his decision could be problematic,_ K.T. thought stoically. _They'll find I'm harder to kill than most kindred in the New World._

"Maybe," Roi agreed, though his expression made K.T. feel as if the bishop did not completely buy into his story. "Tell me, how did you know this anarch?"

"I didn't," K.T. replied smoothly, thinking of a plausible story even as he spoke, piling one layer of bullshit upon another but making certain there was still enough of a foundation of truth to prevent his tale from collapsing. "He came up to me and started talking. I guess he could read auras and recognized me as a vampire."

"You guess?" Roi asked dubiously.

"It wasn't like I was wearing a sign that read, 'Vampire.' " K.T. began. "He dressed like an anarch, and you've had me out there killing anarchs with Riddick. If he recognized me from a fight, he would probably have shot me instead of introducing himself. The only logical conclusion is that he could auras."

"True enough," Roi said with a thin grin. "And what was this anarch's name, Mr. Corben?"

"Billy," K.T. replied, remembering that Michelle had muttered something about addressing the letter to 'Billy' instead of 'Johnny,' just in case anyone saw the note.

"So why didn't you just kill him?" Roi asked evenly. "I believe that would fall into your job description in this city. I'm surely not paying you all that money to play pool with anarchs."

"First, I wasn't playing pool with him," K.T. growled. "Secondly, if I tried to kill him, and he had friends show up at an inconvenient time, I might have started a gunfight in public."

"I don't see a problem with that," Roi replied with an amused grin. "Upholding the Masquerade is not high on my list of priorities. In fact, it's not on my list of priorities at all."

"Even when the public place I'm in is where I'm supposed to meet you?" K.T. asked. "Hey, if you want me to start gunfights in areas where you're supposed to be about to walk into, I'll do it. I just thought your bodyguard here would appreciate me relieving him of that kind of work-related stress." K.T. searched his employer for the slightest hint of a reaction, but saw none. Roi's face had become as stolid as his Templar's. Then a new thought occurred to the mercenary, and he decided to play the risky card in order to free himself of any lingering suspicion.

"That was another of your shitty tests, wasn't it?" K.T. asked angrily. "I'm getting sick of this, Roi. Just because you pay me well doesn't mean you're free to toy with me. Pull another stunt like that, and I'm gone." The surprised look on the bishop's face let K.T. know he had set Roi back on his heels as much as he had hoped.

"What are you talking about, K.T.?" Roi asked, his demeanor appearing to be completely straightforward.

"You've been trying to get me to break the Masquerade ever since I came into the city," K.T. shot back. "What, you figure I'm not loyal to you unless I'm breaking every applicable Camarilla law you disagree with? Is that it?" K.T. noticed that he was shouting, and he could tell from Roi's face that the bishop was suddenly becoming very uncomfortable. K.T. saw that the Templar was well aware of his bishop's unease, and was slowly moving for the inside of his jacket, though the motion seemed to be more of a warning than an actual threat. K.T. ignored the Templar and continued to rip into the bishop, knowing that every bit of rage he showed made it more likely that he would be perceived as genuinely miffed and not desperate to hide a secret. "You can take your public displays and shove them up your ass," K.T. snarled, allowing just the tips of his canines to grow, making him seem more bestial and threatening, though not enough of a danger to have the Templar rip his head from his shoulders. "Refraining from opening up with assault rifles and missile launchers has nothing to do with adhering to the Masquerade," K.T. continued. "It has to do with professionalism. I have it, and you and your sad bunch of miscreants don't. You hired me for my experience, and my experience says to do my job quietly. If you don't like the way I work, we can part ways right now. You can keep the rest of my payment."

Several minutes of silence followed as K.T. glared alternately at the bishop or his Templar, and Roi did his best to avoid any direct eye contact. As they sat there, a sudden thought occurred to K.T. _This guy is actually scared of me,_ he realized. _Even with his bodyguard sitting right there, I make him uncomfortable. This is the guy Philip is here to watch? That makes no sense._

"I see your point," Roi finally replied. "You are, of course, correct, Mr. Corben. I have no interest in forcing you to fight our way, it is enough that you fight at all. Also, rest assured that I had nothing to do with that anarch being in the bar. That was not a test, and I do not feel that any of my other assignments have been structured in any way either to test you or force you into open violence." If K.T. still needed to breathe, he would have sighed, but instead he simply allowed himself to relax a slight bit. A moment later, he regretted his haste in calming down.

In a movement that was lightening-fast, Roi's hand flashed out, grabbed K.T. by the collar and pulled his head forward, smashing his face against the table several times. The mercenary's sight was blurred, and he could feel several broken teeth floating in the mouthful of blood that had collected from lips that split under the force of the impact. "However, Mr. Corben," Roi hissed, "if you ever think you can either try to intimidate me, or ever again insult me or my people, you will be best advised to leave the city." By that time K.T.'s vision had cleared, and he could see the Templar gazing at him intently, almost as if he was hoping K.T. would strike back. Despite the fury that was burning within him, the Gangrel refrained from attacking the bishop, knowing that to do otherwise would likely prove fatal.

"If you do not care to work for me anymore, feel free to leave," Roi snarled. "You forfeit the remainder of your fee. And you can also forget about working for my faction ever again." He gazed deeply into K.T.'s eyes, and then smiled savagely. "Also, one more small point. If you're not working for me, I cannot be certain that I can ensure the safety of Ms. Blackwell. I mean, Ms. Flaherty," he corrected absently. The smile broadened, and K.T. started to feel sick.

"I understand completely," K.T. replied. "You'll have no more problems from me."

"Fine, then take the rest of the night off," Roi muttered. "You look like you got hit by a truck."

K.T. nodded and cursed himself for having relaxed in a dangerous situation. Everything about the bishop's expressions and gestures had led K.T. to believe he had intimidated his employer. However, the exact opposite had been the case. He realized that Roi had simply worked to appear weak, hoping to get K.T.'s guard down and allow an opportunity to strike. _Now I see why Philip is interested,_ K.T. thought. _Not just strength, but patience and intelligence, too. I can't believe I was so fucking stupid!_

"Oh, there is one other matter I would discuss with you," Roi added almost as an afterthought, just as he was standing from his table. "What exactly were you doing last night?"

"What's that?" K.T. asked, once more feeling as if he were in the hot seat.

"Ms. Flaherty spoke with me earlier this evening and mentioned that you had not gone home before sunrise. I was simply curious what, or who, it was that kept you away from your companion for such a long time."

"I was busy," K.T. replied, no longer caring whether or not Roi was suspicious of him. _Of course he'll be suspicious,_ K.T. reminded himself. _Be happy that he is. If he's not suspicious, it's because you're one of the family. Maybe Erica would be happy with that, but I'll never go down that road._ "You want me to start phoning in every hour to let you know what I'm up to?" K.T. asked angrily, a large degree of his bravado returning with the rage he felt at the thought of Erica returning to the Sabbat.

"I don't think we've reached that point," Roi answered. "Yet. Just make certain there are no further extended disappearances. A less confident bishop might think you were up to something behind his back."

"Well then it's a good thing for me you're not a less-confident bishop," K.T. replied with a thin, ambiguous grin. "Otherwise I might have to spend my time defending myself against absurd accusations rather than earn my money putting down your enemies."

"Yes," Roi agreed. "Enjoy your evening, K.T. Only Caine knows when you'll be getting another night off."

**IV**

"So who is he?" Brett asked again, seeming more agitated with every passing minute.

"I think I've told you about all you need to know," Johnny said evasively, knowing that he was starting to really irritate his commanding officer.

"He's a mercenary that you've worked with before," Brett repeated back to his clanmate. "I don't think that narrows it down enough, so I guess I need to know more. Something like... I don't know... maybe whether he'd consider selling us some information about the Sabbat bishop laying siege to the city. Or maybe some of his soldiers. Or maybe we could get this guy to turn against his employers and work for us. Having someone on the inside would be really valuable."

"You can forget all that," Johnny said evenly. "He won't turn against his employers. Not for any price."

"So how is it you've worked with a Sabbat mercenary?" Brett asked suspiciously. "We have strict orders to work only for the Camarilla."

"No shit," Yashida shot back. "This guy is a true merc. He'll work both sides, either Camarilla or Sabbat. Whoever meets his price is good enough as an employer."

"And what's his price?" Brett asked.

"More than you'll ever see," Johnny replied. "Besides, like I said, now that he's been paid and is out in the field, he won't turn for any price. You might as well just forget about him."

"I want to meet with him," Brett demanded. He crossed his arms to emphasize the point, trying to display his well-developed upper body."

"No."

"No?" Brett asked. "That wasn't a request, Yashida. That was an order."

"He's an information source, and not an enemy," Johnny answered. "That means he comes under my jurisdiction, not yours."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Brett asked. "Jurisdiction my ass. Bring him in."

"Give me some room to work," Johnny said calmly, reminding himself that the more belligerent he got, the less success he would have when dealing with what amounted to a defrocked Marine. "Siras expects me to provide the entire clan with information. I get no help with this work, unless you count Uiko the neonate or Michelle the gun-happy Gangrel. I have precious few information sources as it is, and only one really good one here in this city. If I bring him in here, he'll likely never speak to me again. I can appreciate your position, Brett, I really can, but I can't do my job if the rest of the clan keeps scaring away my contacts." Johnny had to suppress the chuckle that almost formed when he suggested that K.T. could ever be scared of Brett, but overall he felt his plea had derived the desired effect.

"Then go speak with him again," Brett responded. "Alone, if that's what works. I really want you to turn this guy."

"I can't do that, either," Johnny answered. "He's working for the Sabbat, Brett. Use your head. If he's seen talking to me, he'll be filleted without even getting the luxury of explaining himself. If I get to speak with him, it's because he went out of his way to contact me, not vice versa. That's just the way it is."

"I'm sorry for you, and I'm sorry for your friend, but you have your orders," Brett replied.

"Don't ask me to do this," Johnny said evenly, his voice not quite reaching the edge of begging. "I'll do just about anything else you want, but I cannot risk my contact." Yashida was well aware of the risk K.T. had taken in contacting him and returning Michelle. He would be damned if he would not at the very least stand up to Brett on behalf of his friend.

"There is one thing you can do," Brett replied far too smoothly for Johnny's tastes. "You can release Uiko."

"Fuck you," Johnny replied.

"That's the choice," Brett stated firmly.

"Uiko is being trained to assist me, Brett," Johnny shot back. "You know that. She's not a stand-up soldier, she's a spy."

"Or an assassin," Brett added.

"Or an assassin," Johnny agreed. "Be that as it may, I can't release her. First of all, the Traditions demand she be presented to a prince to be released. We don't happen to have one of those in New Orleans. Second of all, her training isn't finished. I won't release her."

"Then you'll speak to your mercenary friend," Brett replied.

"Do you remember that conversation we had earlier?" Johnny asked. "You know, the one about caring about your people? Have you simply forgotten all of what we discussed, or what?"

"I remember it all," Brett answered, "but I'm trying to win a war here. It's just you and me, Johnny. Well, I guess you could count your anarch friends too, but they won't accept my orders. I have to do anything I can to win. Remember, I have Siras and Marcus watching me, making decisions based on what they hear. If they hear I'm allowing you to hold out mercenaries, or that we're paying Uiko even though she isn't even experienced enough to be released, what will they think?"

"I'm sorry," Johnny muttered, seeing for the first time just how anxious his clanmate was. He had forgotten that Brett was inexperienced in leadership, both during his mortal days and also during his time as kindred. The ranks of the Telemon were still relatively thin, so there was little time for formal training. Siras' attitude was that his people would learn by doing. Brett was as unprepared to lead the fight against the Sabbat as Uiko was to actually take part in the fighting. "Don't worry, though, sir, it'll be alright." Even as Johnny spoke the words, it struck him how absurd they were. He knew it sounded as if he was trying to console a child, to assure him that everything would work out ok in the end.

"Then, on top of everything else, you're not helping," Brett said, continuing to vent his frustrations.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Johnny asked. "Just because I won't introduce you to my friend--"

"I'm not talking about your friend, Johnny," Brett said, cutting him off. "I'm talking about you. You refuse to fight."

"Fighting is not my strong suit," Johnny replied. "You should know that."

"I think you're much better than anyone gives you credit for," Brett said, each word sending a chill down Yashida's spine. Johnny had spent years developing his fighting skills, though he had always kept a low profile. The truth of the matter was that he was just as good as dealing out punishment as anyone else in his clan, but he had not spent enough time and energy enhancing his undead body. Vampires like Marcus or K.T. could stand up to gunfire like they were being shot by a BB gun. Johnny had no such superhuman constitution. As he had been a spy and thief, he had developed stealth instead of brawn, hoping that in combat he would either be able to sneak up on his enemies, or else have one of his clanmates dispatch the threat for him. It was a philosophy that had always worked for him. "You forget," Brett added, "I was in San Francisco during the Sabbat siege. You killed a Templar, Johnny. In fact, you killed the very same Templar that had me on the verge of death before you intervened. You can't convince me, of all people, that you can't fight."

"I'll make you a deal," Johnny offered, cursing the night he had to display some of the powers he had secretly developed behind his clan members' backs. "I can see the situation you find yourself in, and I want to help out. Let's go back out there with Damage, Incorporated. We'll find Damage Control, and this time we'll stick it to them. Really hard-core shit, we'll even wipe them out if we can. If we do that, then let me keep my secrets and my childe. If we don't do any better than we have in the past, though, I'll release Uiko to you, and only to you. She'll still be considered unreleased as far as any princes are concerned, which means you'll have to take over her training. But you'll also have the advantage of being able to command her to do anything, without worrying about whether I'll allow her to undertake the task."

"You have yourself a deal," Brett said with a smile, his mood seeming to lift immediately.

"Just one condition," Johnny added.

"What?" Brett asked nervously.

"When we go out there to fight, you have to take Riddick," Johnny said. "I don't know that I could beat him, and if I did, it would be because I used some abilities that make me very nervous. I'd rather not do that."

"You mean your shadow powers," Brett concluded.

"Yeah," Johnny confirmed.

"Marcus told me that you were getting worried about that stuff," Brett replied. "I'm fine with that. Just keep all of his packmates off my ass, okay?"

"Not a problem," Johnny said with a grin. "Now let's get out there, eh? Nighttime's wasting."

**V**

"So what have you been up to?" K.T. asked as he walked into the bedroom that he and Erica shared in the Bed and Breakfast. He could still hear Roi's words echoing through his head – _Ms. Flaherty spoke with me earlier this evening, and mentioned that you had not gone home before sunrise._ Rage built up within him as he imagined Roi playing with Erica's mind behind his back, seducing her away from K.T. The mercenary would not allow that.

"Just watching the hockey game," Erica replied, gesturing to the television, where Fox Sports Southwest was airing the game between the Dallas Stars and the Phoenix Coyotes. "I don't think these two teams like each other too much."

"Good guess," K.T. answered. "That's not what I meant, though. What have you been doing? You leave here at all?"

"Nope," Erica answered. "I mean, it's not like I have to go out to get beer and pretzels or anything, though Caine knows I could sure use some right now."

"Caine knows?" K.T. asked immediately, seizing upon Erica's returning Sabbat-like speech patterns. The Sabbat claimed to fight for the pure vision of Caine, the first of the vampires. To the Sabbat, Caine was like a god. It was unusual outside the Sabbat for a vampire to invoke the name of the first of their kind.

"Yeah, Caine knows," Erica answered absently. "Like you've never heard that before."

"Not from you," K.T. replied.

"I used to always say it," Erica shot back.

"I could've guessed," K.T. answered.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Erica screamed. Her shouting startled K.T., and the Gangrel had to take a moment to collect his thoughts. Erica did not allow him that luxury. "Ever since we got here, you've been going off about how much the Sabbat pisses you off. If that's true, then why the hell did you even take this job?"

"You want to know why?" K.T. asked angrily, using the precious moments it took to ask the question to formulate a plausible lie. He knew there was no way in hell he could ever have told Erica the truth. Telling Erica would have been a huge breach of Philip's trust, and it would likely have brought Hassan to K.T.'s door, and not for a social call. "The reason is simple, Erica," K.T. stated. "I'm a mercenary. A very expensive one, actually. There are few enough people that can afford my services, and when one comes along, I've learned that it's unwise to turn him away. I don't like the Sabbat, but I'll work for them. For that matter, I don't like the Camarilla much at all, either, but I'll work for them, too. It's just business. There's nothing here to get personal about. You'd be well served to figure that the fuck out."

"What?" Erica asked, obviously stunned.

"Which part didn't you understand?" K.T. asked, once again pressing the verbal attack. He knew it had been a long time since he had talked to Erica like this. In fact, it had not been since their earliest hours together, under fire in New York, that he had been so hostile. He also knew that being so vicious ran the risk of forcing her to get closer to her new Sabbat 'friends.' He was past caring, however. He was too angry – angry at Philip for sending him to New Orleans, angry at Erica for actually taking to the assignment on a personal level, angry at Roi for smashing his face open, and angry at himself for not being strong enough to deal with everyone that was making him angry. "What the fuck, Erica? You've been with me for long enough to figure out that a mercenary does not get involved personally in his job. Strict professionalism – that's the way of a mercenary's life."

"Well maybe I don't want to be a mercenary anymore," Erica retorted, failing miserably at concealing the bloody teardrops that were forming in her sparkling, almond-colored eyes. "We left New York too quickly, K.T. Maybe we should have tried to make them understand. Polonia would have at least listened if we tried to tell him the Camarilla had made an attempt on his life."

"The Camarilla?" K.T. asked immediately, before he caught himself in horror. He had almost forgotten that Erica's memories of the events in New York had been altered considerably. She had no recollection of the intricate conspiracy that had taken place, or the involvement of the Black Hand. She had been allowed to retain the memory of the battle with the cardinal's Templars, but not the actual reason for the gunfight.

"The assassination attempt," Erica said, prompting her companion. "Don't act like you don't remember."

"It's something I've been trying to forget," K.T. said without missing a beat.

"There was no assassination attempt, was there?" Erica asked suddenly, her question coming out of nowhere. K.T.'s stomach completely bottomed out when he heard the question. "You don't have to answer, K.T., I can see it in your eyes. I already guessed that much. I talked to a couple of the younger Sabbat vampires a bit, and the topic of New York came up. And don't worry, I still didn't tell them who I really am, but I heard quite a different story from the one you told. Actually, I heard a few stories that were different from the one you told. Seems the official story matches up with what you told me, but there are a lot of rumors. I don't even know for sure what really happened, and I was there. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

"The Sabbat has a cover-up going on, Erica, you have to see that," K.T. replied. "You think they would let it get out that the Camarilla got that close to taking out the Cardinal of the Eastern United States? You might as well expect the Camarilla to start advertising in the New York Times for new Justicars every time one is killed."

"Why have you been lying to me all this time?" Erica asked. "How could you? I trusted you. I loved you."

"Loved?" K.T. asked. "Past tense?"

"I don't know, K.T.," Erica said, her body finally starting to rack with slight sobs, scarlet teardrops now running freely down her pale white cheeks. "I can't love somebody I don't trust, and I can't trust you."

"Yes you can, Erica," K.T. replied. In the back of his mind he could vaguely tell that his voice sounded weak, as if he were begging. That added to the list of irritants in his life, making him even angrier, but his overwhelming feeling of grief quickly drowned out his rage. All that was left was a wounded young man. "I'm the only person in the entire world who you can trust, Erica. Don't you see that?"

"I wish I could believe that, but I don't," she responded, getting up off of the bed and grabbing her backpack from the closet.

"Where are you going?" K.T. asked, a sense of desperation beginning to take over him.

"Away from here," Erica said sadly. "Away from you."

"To the Sabbat?"

"I don't know," she said evenly. "Maybe, but not right away. I have some things I need to think about."

"Like what?" K.T. asked, taking her by the hand, clenching her soft skin in his callused hands, as if the physical contact would be enough to drain her resolve and bring her back to him. It did not work.

"I have to figure out why you would allow someone to alter my memories, and then lie to me for years," Erica explained calmly. "And don't stand there looking shocked, as if you had no idea of what had happened. The only thing that should surprise you is that I figured it out, I guess. And just so you know, I don't remember how things actually went, so you can feel okay about that. I'm going to figure it out, though, and then we're gonna talk."

_No,_ K.T. thought grimly. _If you figure it out, you're going to die. Philip and Hassan will never allow you to regain your memories of the True Hand._ "Don't do this," he pleaded, keeping his true concerns to himself.

"It's done," she said, pulling her hand from his grasp. She walked through the door without looking back, and K.T. was left to close the door behind her.

Part of him wanted to run after her, to convince her that everything was still all right, that her fears and suspicions were unfounded. Another part of him knew that was a lie, and felt she should have some time to figure things out for herself. The strongest part of the mercenary, however, the one part of his personality that had been with him for as long as he could remember, would simply not allow him to chase her. Ever. His pride, his independence, his overly stubborn iron will would not permit him to play the role of a lovesick puppy that had been hurt. He would leave her to her own devices. _If she never comes back, I'll probably be better off,_ he tried to convince himself. _And if she does come back, she'll have some apologizing to do._

"I believe that could have gone better," a voice said from behind the mercenary. K.T. whirled as he drew his Ruger, and came face to face with Philip.

"You keep coming in uninvited, you're liable to get yourself shot," K.T. grumbled. "What the hell do you want this time?"

"I was watching you and your lover, and I was wondering what you plan on doing about this situation," Philip answered.

"First of all, she's not my lover," K.T. shot back.

"Oh, my apologies," Philip replied smoothly. "I was under the impression that you had shared blood with her more than three times, and that you had not been blood bound to anyone before doing so. I assumed that a blood bond had been formed with our dear Ms. Blackwell, just as it would have been with any other vampire in the world. Forgive me if the biological laws of vampirism do not hold true to you."

"Fuck off," K.T. muttered.

"That's hardly the way to talk to the person who could fix your little problem," Philip chided. "You really should be more friendly.

"Fix my problem?" K.T. asked. "How you plan on doing that? You think Hassan will be willing to pay Erica a visit?"

"A valid suggestion, Mr. Corben," Philip answered. "I had not thought you would be open to the possibility of liquidating Ms. Blackwell. That could, of course, be arranged."

"Forget it," K.T. replied. "What did you have in mind?"

"I have many friends, K.T.," Philip explained, "and many of these friends owe me favors. I'm sure we could have someone alter her memories again. Perhaps this time we can have her convinced that you saved her from the vile clutches of some fiendish Sabbat bishop."

"No," K.T. said immediately. "No more fucking with her head."

"It would solve your problems, K.T.," Philip responded. "I thought that would please you."

"She was right, you know," K.T. said. "Everything she said was right. I've been lying to her ever since we left New York. Everything we have is based on lies."

Philip gazed at his protégé for a few moments, and then let out a long sigh. "What the hell was I ever thinking when I recruited you?" he asked rhetorically. "In you I thought I had found an peerless warrior, but here you are wallowing in self-pity and misery like some lovesick teenager. You could have been great, K.T., but now you're pathetic. You had best get your act together."

"Meaning what, exactly?" K.T. asked, already suspecting the answer.

"You're a smart enough boy to figure that out, Mr. Corben," Philip said. "I have no use for weaklings. If you are not strong and resourceful, then I will find someone who is."

"I'm sick and tired of your shit," K.T. grumbled, cupping his face in his hands for a moment to gather himself. When he removed his hands, Philip was nowhere in sight. "Fine, you want bad ass, you'll get bad ass," K.T. said angrily.

The mercenary withdrew his cell phone from his duster pocket and dialed Roi's phone number. The bishop answered almost immediately. "It's Corben," K.T. said. "Give me someone to kill."

"I thought I told you to take the night off," Roi replied.

"I seem to have found a lot of unexpected pent up aggression," K.T. responded sarcastically. "I plan to use it to dust some poor unsuspecting Camarilla dope. Now either you give me a target of your own choosing, or I'll just blow away the first jackass who gets in my path. So you gonna give me a name or what?"

"Settle down, Mr. Corben," Roi said smoothly. "I have the perfect target in mind for you."

**VI**

"I don't care if they're out there talking shit about us," Simeon said sternly. "I'm not fighting those guys again. They want our turf that bad, they can have it."

"But they're probably Sabbat," Johnny replied, looking over his friend for any sign that Simeon was considering giving in. He saw none.

"Simeon's right," Cabbage Patch said, adding her voice to the discussion. "I think we should just leave town."

"Leave town?" Brett asked, making certain he did all he could to bring Johnny's anarch allies into the battle. "Weren't we here first?"

"_We_ were here first," Simeon shot back. "You didn't get here until after the Sabbat did. Don't think we've forgotten about that just because you fought Riddick to a draw."

"We can win," Johnny said, his voice overflowing with confidence. "Trust me."

"You weren't there last time, Billy," Simeon said, turning to talk to the smaller Telemon. "They kicked the shit out of us, and whacked Ghetto Blaster, maybe Michelle too."

"Michelle is fine," Johnny replied. "Well, close enough to fine. She'll need a couple of nights to heal the gaping hole in her stomach."

"She's okay?" Simeon asked.

"You think I'd be out here if she wasn't all right?" Johnny asked. "No way, man."

"For all we know, she got killed and you're going to use us to help you get revenge," Cabbage Patch interjected. "I have no use for your vendetta, Billy. I really think we should leave."

"We?" Johnny asked. "All of us, or just you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cabbage Patch asked.

"It just occurred to me that if I were in the Sabbat, I would try to get the anarchs to either join the cause or else leave the city," Johnny answered. "They tried to enlist most of us, and we said 'no.' Maybe now they sent one of their inside people to convince us to leave."

"Someone like me?" Cabbage Patch asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

"She catches on fast," Brett commented to his clanmate."

"As if," Cabbage Patch replied. "I think if I were in the Sabbat, I would try to trick the anarchs into coming back as often as possible, until they were all wiped out."

"Oh, that makes sense," Johnny shot back. "Spend time and resources wiping out anarchs in the open so that the older kindred have a chance to prepare themselves for when it's their turn. The Sabbat would never do that."

"How do you know?" Cabbage Patch asked. "Is it because you're one of them?"

"It's because the plan is stupid," Brett answered for his clanmate, bringing an amused smile to Johnny's face. "Look, we can send accusations back and forth all night, but we'll end up in the same place."

"And where's that?" DeNiro asked, finally walking over to join the group.

"I don't know, you tell me," Brett responded. "Where did you guys sleep last night? Where were you planning on sleeping tonight? You seem unwilling to go back home as long as Damage Control is in the area," Brett pointed out. "Where we end up is up to you."

"You're right," DeNiro said. "I'm not gonna bend over and let those faggots fuck me up the ass. We're gonna go give them somethin' to remember."

"And what's that?" Cabbage Patch asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"An ass-kicking for all time," Simeon answered. "Either we win, or we don't, but we're not backing off of our own turf."

"Damn skippy," Johnny agreed. At that moment Barb and Uiko walked over, just in time to hear the news.

-------------------------------------------------

"You know, part of me pities you," Riddick said arrogantly. "I mean, we killed off one of your people last night, and you still come back looking for more. This time we're gonna hurt you real bad."

"Talk is cheap, asshole," DeNiro replied, looking to get the fight started as soon as possible.

"Isn't there some way to work this out?" Johnny asked, trying desperately to buy some time before the cutting and shooting started. He figured every second was crucial, so that he could have all of his people in place.

"What?" DeNiro asked, turning to his packmate. "I thought you were the one that really wanted to grease these sons of bitches."

"Only if we have to," Johnny replied, never taking his eyes off Riddick. "What if we agree to stay out of your little war?" Johnny asked the Sabbat pack leader. "Just leave us alone, and we'll leave you alone."

"No deals," Riddick answered. "Uptown is ours now. Seems to me you can just accept that, and leave, or you can keep coming back up here and get killed."

"No deals?" Johnny asked. _No way we let you keep Uptown_, he thought silently. While Uptown and the bordering universities were generally considered an anarch playground, it was also accepted custom that any vampire in the city could go there to feed. That was obviously the reason for having Damage Control pay so much attention to a seemingly worthless area. By keeping out the locals, the Sabbat would slowly starve off the vampires that offered any resistance. "Then it seems we're at an impasse."

"A what?" Riddick growled. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means there won't be any agreement, jackass," DeNiro offered. "It means we kick the shit out of you now." Johnny's Brujah packmate lunged forward at Riddick, only to be intercepted by one of the other Sabbat.

Riddick quickly took three steps back and gestured for Brett to come at him alone, and the large Telemon accepted the challenge gladly. While Brett and Riddick started to fight with knives as they had the night before, everyone around them drew a gun and either started firing or diving for cover. The Sabbat soldiers, more confident in their fighting abilities, controlled the fight early, sending the anarchs into an immediate state of confusion.

"What the fuck do we do now?" Simeon asked Johnny as the two crouched behind a beaten-up lime green Cadillac. "Is this what you had in mind?" Bullets tore through the vehicle's steel body and ricocheted off of the pavement all around the two vampires.

"Run away," Johnny answered quickly, gazing directly into Simeon's eyes. The act of domination was simple, as Johnny was ordering his friend to undertake an action toward which he was predisposed anyway. "I'll cover you for a few seconds." Simeon needed no other prompting, and gestured for Uiko, DeNiro, Barb, and Cabbage Patch to follow. Simeon dove away and all but Uiko followed immediately. The Telemon neonate held her ground firmly, shooting blindly over the hood of a Chevy Cavalier in the general direction of three Sabbat that had organized themselves into a cohesive unit. _Now that they're gone, the fun can begin,_ Johnny thought. He had only needed Damage, Inc. to come with him into Uptown to help attract more attention. Now that Damage Control had found them, the Telemon preferred to send his friends away, both to protect them, and to make certain they would not see any of the abilities he was about to display.

Yashida started to focus the blood in his body, sending it into his arms and legs so as to increase strength, stamina, and physical coordination. The effects would be temporary, he knew, but would last long enough to give him every edge that he would need. Once he had augmented his supernatural body as much as he could in so short a time, he changed his focus from enhancing his mortal form to activating vampiric disciplines. Every muscle in his body began to shake ever so slightly as he accelerated his movements. In a blur of motion he darted from behind the Cadillac and at the three Sabbat. Only one of them even saw him coming, and the comparatively inexperienced combatant did not have enough time to get off a well-aimed shot. Johnny drew his ninja-to as he shot toward his enemies, preferring to use the hand-held weapon in close-quarters combat.

Johnny hamstrung one of the gunmen before the Sabbat even knew he was there, and followed the initial attack with a spinning slash that severed the Sabbat vampire's forearm, taking his Uzi from his grasp. By that moment the other two had recovered enough to turn their attention to Yashida, and Johnny braced himself for the shots that he knew he would not be able to avoid. _Be like the water,_ he could remember Uiko advising him not long ago, perfectly serious but reminding her sire of Bruce Lee in 'Enter the Dragon.' _Water can be soft, but it can also be hard. It can yield under pressure, but it can also destroy with solid force._ Both Sabbat vampires opened up on the Telemon, and Johnny was thrown back farther than either had expected. In the last moment before they had fired, he had levitated himself the slightest bit off the ground. By not having his feet firmly planted below him, he was able to move better with the impact of the bullets. His body was less like a wall than an upright mattress absorbing the impact of each bullet.

Behind his foes, Johnny saw Uiko approaching with her own ninja-to. He knew she would gain a free strike from behind before either could react, and set about healing as much damage as he could so that he would be able to make an effective counter-strike of his own.

Brett, however, was not in as much control of his situation as his clanmates were of theirs. Riddick only seemed stronger than he had the night before, and Brett found it difficult to keep pace with the obviously older and more experienced vampire. Only the advanced training and combat experience that Brett had received as a mortal kept him alive against a Sabbat soldier that should have been tearing him to pieces. Riddick would dive at Brett, throwing quick combinations of kicks, punches, and knife slashes, and then suddenly, inexplicably, back off as if he was reevaluating his adversary. The constant changes in tempo threw Brett off of any rhythm and prevented him from anticipating any of Riddick's attacks.

Twice Brett tried to get his right hand free long enough to draw his Colt 1911 .45 cal. sidearm, but it seemed as if Riddick was reading his thoughts. Before Brett could get his hand more than a few inches in the direction of his pistol, Riddick immediately pressed his attack harder, forcing Brett to use all of his concentration to hold the other vampire at bay. It was during the second attempt at drawing his weapon that Brett realized his opponent was toying with him.

Johnny, meanwhile, watched with delight as Uiko approached unseen and drove her ninja-to into the back of one of Johnny's opponents, the blade impaling the vampire's heart and sending him into torpor. The second vampire facing Yashida gasped slightly as he realized his partner was suddenly gone from the fight. He tried to back off, but Johnny was expecting the attempt at escape. For the briefest moment, the Sabbat soldier was left vulnerable as he was half-turned toward Yashida. Johnny made good use of the momentary opening. He thrust forward with his ninja-to, driving the sword into the vampire's abdomen. He then twisted the edge upward, and lifted with as much strength as he could muster. For the briefest moment, the vampire was lifted an inch off of the ground, but then the wickedly sharp blade quickly suddenly sliced upward through ribs, muscle, and flesh as easily as a knife through Jell-O. One more quick gasp escaped the vampire's lips, and then he collapsed to the ground. By that time, the third vampire, whom Johnny had initially hamstrung, had healed his wound enough to also try to flee. Uiko saw the vampire's movements, and stomped her foot down onto the Sabbat's leg, which was still bleeding from an open wound. She looked toward her sire, and Johnny shook his head as he drew a sawed-off shotgun from his back. A bright flash of light illuminated the dark alley as a jet of flame burst forth from the shotgun, the dragon's breath phosphorous round that had been in the weapon incinerating the Telemon's foe.

With his three adversaries defeated, Johnny turned back toward Brett to see if his commander had yet finished up with Riddick. To Johnny's surprise, Riddick was winning. Brett was being forced back several steps, blood flowing freely from several slashes across his arms and legs, with one large wound on his left shoulder. Riddick was grinning widely as he drove the Telemon back on his heels.

"Shit," Yashida muttered. He was about to power his undead body toward his clanmate when he saw a brief flash of light reflecting off a small metal object. A brief moment later Riddick grunted in pain. The large Sabbat pack leader tried to reach around toward the back of his left shoulder while still holding off Brett with only his left hand. While Brett was cut up badly, he was not yet defeated, and he had more than enough skill to sneak in a strike against a foe that was only paying him half as much attention as he should have been. Brett slashed at Riddick's right thigh, the one part of his body that was stuck out the farthest. Riddick's left hand moved a fraction of a second too slowly. The blades met with a sharp clang, but Brett's military issue survival knife slid off of Riddick's knife and cut into the vampire's thigh. The large vampire staggered, and then grunted as he rolled his right shoulder. This time Johnny could see the cause for Riddick's distraction. Two Japanese throwing stars were embedded in his back, one right behind each shoulder. Yashida turned slightly toward Uiko, and saw his childe withdrawing a third star in her hand. A brief moment later Uiko was thrown back in a hail of gunfire, a salvo that also knocked Johnny from his own feet. He looked up to see Cabbage Patch emerge from behind the same lime green Cadillac that he had been using for cover a short time earlier.

"Get out of here Riddick!" Johnny heard the local anarch shout, her voice clearly on the verge of panic. _She's part of the Sabbat,_ he realized immediately, not at all surprised at the revelation. He had fully expected one of the members of Damage, Inc. to be Sabbat, but had he been a betting man, his money would have been on Barb. Like Michelle, Johnny had already decided that Barb's behavior was just not right for a Caitiff. Johnny concentrated on healing his wounds, flowing his vampiric vitae into every part of his body that hurt, knowing his mystical blood would take care of the healing process almost on its own. He cleared his head and looked up, just in time to see Cabbage Patch standing over him, a crazed gleam in her twinkling grey eyes. "Who the fuck are you?" she asked venomously, suddenly seeming more concerned with interrogating Yashida than she was with getting Riddick to safety.

"You'll never know," Johnny muttered in response, a thin smile forming over his lips. "'Cause after all, you're dead." Cabbage Patch gave him a puzzled stare, and then a thick red mist burst forth from her chest. She gazed down with a puzzled look on her face, not initially realizing that she had been shot. A moment later the pain hit her, and she grimaced just as another bullet tore into her, this one spraying half of her head all over Johnny. Yashida stood quickly, a grimace on his face. He did not try to find Mason, whom he knew was responsible for the well-placed and timely sniper support. He would simply commend his childe later on a job well done. For now, there were other pressing matters.

Johnny looked immediately toward Uiko, who was already struggling to her feet. By the time Johnny turned back toward Brett, the larger Telemon's confrontation was over. Riddick's body was lying on the ground, Brett's knife sticking out of his chest. Yashida assumed that Brett had been able to make fully effective use of the distraction that Uiko had provided.

"Can you carry him?" Johnny asked his superior immediately. He could already hear the less than faint sound of sirens in the distance, doubtlessly responding to calls regarding the intense gunfire that had been raging only a couple of minutes earlier. Brett nodded, and Johnny gestured for Uiko to pick up the second staked vampire, who still had Uiko's ninja-to protruding from his back. She also nodded, then hoisted her trophy and melted into the nearby shadows.

"What are we gonna do with them?" Brett asked, his eyes not on his clanmate, but on the street, from which the sound of sirens was growing louder every second.

"Take him back to the haven," Johnny replied with a gesture toward Riddick, wondering why he was the one giving orders. "I have something special planned. I'll meet you back there after I get rid of these bodies," he called, referring to the other two that he and Uiko had been able to kill. "Mason, take care of your own kill," Johnny muttered, knowing his childe was listening through the microphone that Johnny was wearing. As Johnny's two victims were dead, they served no special purpose other than to endanger the Masquerade. While the two vampires would have had no problem with knowing that their corpses would have led to the violation of one of the Camarilla's greatest laws, Johnny had the exact opposite sentiment. He grasped each corpse firmly, and then flew twenty feet into the air. Flight was a relatively new power for the small Telemon, and he was still working out a lot of the finer points of the ability. Holding over three hundred pounds in dead weight was not making matters any easier, either. After a great deal of time and exertion, he was finally able to set the bodies down two blocks over and throw them in the back of a car that he appropriated. The rest of the plan was easy – drive to a deserted parking lot and torch the car, thus destroying all evidence.

**VII**

_Give me someone to kill,_ K.T. thought, recalling his own words, spoken not too long ago. Roi had satisfied his desire for a worthy victim, that much was certain. He looked with perverse amusement at the name on the thin file in his hand – Jules Du Lenne, the Toreador primogen. K.T. could hardly believe Roi's nerve. _Well, that'll teach me not to question his orders again,_ the Gangrel thought ruefully. _Goddamn temper's gotta get under control. I could have had a night off, but now I have to ice a primogen._ Before he could mutter another curse at Roi, K.T. remembered what it was that had driven him back onto the battlefield that night. Erica had left, taking a huge piece of him with her. K.T. could actually feel the void in his soul where, until recently, he had kept his heart. That was a space meant only for Erica, though, and if he did not have her, he had no place for empathy, mercy, or love. He could just imagine how Philip would feel when he saw the carnage that K.T. planned to unleash. _Son of a bitch'll probably have wet dreams all day while he sleeps._

Jules Du Lenne lived in a large Victorian style house directly on St. Charles Ave., right at the edge of the Garden District. That posed two major problems for the mercenary – first, the location was entirely too public for his tastes, and second, there would be police response within two minutes, and likely within less time. _My ass none of your assignments are meant as a test to get me to be publicly violent,_ K.T. thought angrily, remembering his conversation with the bishop in Superior Grille. _If you really wanted me to be able to keep a low profile, you would have had your own people do your dirty work here instead. I can't wait until this job is finally over,_ K.T. thought with a thrill, his emotions shifting from simply hostile to absolutely murderous. _I'm gonna skin you alive, Roi. No one can treat me like this._

The mercenary checked his weapons and almost laughed. He had his trademark Ruger Redhawk .44 cal. hand cannon, and four speed loaders. In all, that gave him only thirty shots, and he had doubts whether he could do the job with such little ammunition. _Of course, once I open fire I'll have about a minute and a half to finish the job and escape before the police arrive,_ he acknowledged as another wave of rage passed over him. _I'm gonna do this job, and I'm gonna scare the holy hell out of Roi with the way I do it,_ K.T. decided.

The mercenary stepped back into a shadow and scanned the streets in every direction, making certain that there was no one near him that would see what he was about to do. In the course of only a few seconds, his body started to shift and fade, and then began to change consistency. In a frighteningly short time, K.T. had gone from a six-foot tall mercenary in a brown duster to no more than a wispy, intangible mist. The ability to shift his form into a mist was something new to the Gangrel, and the sensation still felt extremely awkward to him. He always wondered exactly how he looked as he spread his form out thinly and floated through the air. This time, however, he was struck with a memory of Cecil B. DeMille's movie "The Ten Commandments." He remembered the Angel of Death as an apparently harmless green mist, behind which the wailing of mothers could be heard as the first-born sons of Egypt were struck dead. _Yes, the Angel of Death,_ K.T. thought, pleased with the analogy. _Tonight, that's me, and every Toreador will weep for their primogen, who is about to be cut down in his prime._

K.T. floated up to Du Lenne's house, amazed that not a single one of the half-dozen guards had noticed him. He did not stop to count his blessings, however, and examined the building closely. All of the windows seemed shut tightly enough to prevent even a mist from getting through easily. K.T. wondered if such a precaution was taken to prevent the very thing he was attempting, and hoped that it was not. Otherwise, his job would be far more difficult than he wished. Any concerns the Gangrel had were pushed from his mind immediately, however, as he came around the front of the building. Two guards stood before the door, but both were looking away from the mist that hugged the building's white wood paneling. The one feature that drew K.T. attention was the mail slot in the door. It was obviously still in use, and K.T. inched his way over toward the glaring oversight in the building's defenses.

The thin mist gathered itself slowly in front of the door, and K.T. marveled that neither guard ever even flinched. They seemed as well disciplined as the English Beefeaters at Buckingham Palace, but unfortunately for Du Lenne, his sentries were facing the wrong direction. The Gangrel floated inside the building and scanned the entrance's parlor. No one was in sight, and he could not hear any voices. Taking faith in his ability to shift back into his solid form quickly enough if danger presented itself, K.T continued on in his mist form.

He floated out into the main hall, finding a huge dining room with a sixteen-foot high ceiling and a massive kitchen beyond. _Gotta love this Southern architecture,_ K.T. mused, allowing his mind to drift from his chosen task for the first time since Erica walked out. When he realized his lapse, he would have shuddered if it had been possible. Instead, he simply redoubled his resolve and focused on the faces of everyone who had angered him during his life. Roi came first, followed closely by Philip, and then, predictably, his sire, Ty, also made an appearance in his memory's menagerie of despised acquaintances. K.T.'s thoughts settled once again, however, as he found a staircase. He drifted upwards, keeping his form as thin as possible, and emerged on a landing that was decorated, predictably enough, with several paintings on the walls.

It was then that K.T first heard the voices. He could hear the muffled sounds of an argument taking place in a nearby room, so he followed the noise. He stretched himself out incredibly thinly, extending his form over twenty feet and keeping himself at the point where the wall met the floor. He figured that would be the best way to prevent detection.

"I think you'd better just play ball with the rest of the primogen right now," a voice said, K.T. finally able to make out the words as he arrived at the outside of the room. The slightest hint of a Japanese accent tinged the voice, and K.T. ran through the names of all of the house guards, coming up with none that were Japanese. He concluded that the voice belonged to someone from outside the home, and from the firm tone he was taking, that someone had to be rather influential.

"Fine, I'll take your opinion under advisement," a second voice answered angrily. _That would be Du Lenne,_ K.T. realized immediately, unable to believe his luck at arriving in the right place at the right time.

"No you won't," the first speaker accused. "Damn you, Jules. If you screw this up, you might just take all of us down with you."

"Fortune favors the bold," Du Lenne replied. "This siege is no time to play it safe. If we do this right, we can not only defeat the Sabbat, but also win the city for our own clan. It is the Toreador, not the Ventrue, who have guided New Orleans for most of its history. There is a great opportunity here."

"If you split our resources for this power-grab of yours, you'll only succeed in tearing our clan apart," the first man stated firmly. "You're a great artist – you're every bit as good as your old mentor, Rafael – but you're no strategist."

"Battle is an ugly thing which only occupies the minds of grunts like those Telemon mercenaries Carlos is so intent on having around," Du Lenne shot back. "Strategy is a simple enough thing. It all comes down to who has the greatest will."

_Well, that's at least partially correct,_ K.T. admitted silently, acknowledging that the Toreador primogen was right on the mark when he cited will as a major factor in emerging victorious from a conflict. _Butr the whole 'strategy is simple' thing is just about as stupid as anything I've ever heard in my life… and I hang around with Erica._ Remembering the Ventrue _antitribu_ sent a new wave of fury through the Gangrel, and he focused again on the conversation, hoping that concentrating on the job would banish thoughts of the mess his personal life had become.

"It's called the martial _arts_ for a reason," the first man answered after a deliberate silence. "You are a fool, and I simply hope you realize that in time to avoid destroying us."

The door opened unexpectedly, and K.T. did not even have time for a short prayer that he would not be discovered. The primogen's visitor did not see him, however. The brief moment that K.T. had to look in the room allowed him to see that along with Du Lenne there was only one bodyguard. The door closed again, leaving K.T. in the hall to formulate a plan that would allow him to kill both Toreador without having an alarm raised. Before he could come up with anything, the voices started again.

"Maybe he's right, sire," a voice that could only have been the guard's said. "I've heard a lot about the Sabbat. This might not be the best time to make a play for the city. We should help the other clans and then take the city once we know for sure that it still belongs to the Camarilla."

"Why are you even speaking to me?" Du Lenne asked. "I don't remember asking you for an opinion, Sebastian. You like the Jap's plan so much, then run along with him. Maybe he'll hire you as a bodyguard. God knows you need the work."

"What?" Sebastian asked.

"You're fired," Du Lenne clarified. "I embraced you only to protect me, not lecture me. If I want advice, I'll consult my lieutenants, Sebastian. If you can't do your job in silence, you won't do it at all. Now get out."

"Seriously?" Sebastian asked. "You'd be alone up here."

"I have other guards," Du Lenne said absently. "Now get out before I have you thrown out. In several plastic bags. Understand?" No further words were spoken; the door opened and Sebastian walked out quickly, leaving the primogen alone.

_Roi couldn't have done his homework,_ K.T. thought. _Why kill this clown? He seems utterly incompetent. He'd have to be the best artist of his generation to be able to hold influence with his management style._ K.T. started to move toward the door when a new, frightening thought occurred to him. _Maybe he's not a great artist. Maybe he's just the biggest bad ass in the clan, and now I'm about to go in there and fight him._ The mercenary considered that thought for a moment, and then began to wonder if he was, perhaps, wrong in trying to be subtle. His best bet might lie in just throwing it all out there and getting the job done, simply forgetting about subtlety. Then some of Du Lenne's words came back to the mercenary – _Battle is an ugly thing which only occupies the minds of grunts_. With an attitude like that, K.T. doubted that Du Lenne would be as formidable a foe as his age indicated he could be; the mercenary had not missed the mention of Rafael as Du Lenne's old mentor.

The mercenary started to filter in under the door before he got a chance to rethink his decision again, and found Du Lenne standing looking out the window, his back to the door to his room. K.T. saw that he was in a study, noting that if he needed them, the letter opener on the desk and the silver candelabra on the bookcase could be used as effective makeshift weapons. He did not plan on needing weapons, however. The thin mist that drifted under the door gathered behind the Toreador primogen and coalesced into the form of K.T. Corben. The Gangrel grew his hands into sharply taloned claws and gathered his strength to strike. Before he could swing, however, Du Lenne turned quickly, a startled look on his face. _Damn, he saw my reflection in the mirror,_ K.T. realized angrily, surprised that he had overlooked the crucial detail that had betrayed his presence. He quickly attributed the oversight to the fact that he had been in mist form, which was still an unusual experience for him.

"You shouldn't have fired your bodyguard," K.T. said evenly. In a flash his right hand slashed out, leaving a thin line of blood across Du Lenne's throat. The Toreador tried to call out for help, only to find that his foe had severed his vocal cords with the first strike. Before Du Lenne could react, K.T. slammed his left hand into the primogen's abdomen, his claws shredding through flesh and spraying blood onto Du Lenne's Oriental rug. With a flick of the wrist the Toreador produced a jeweled stiletto in his left hand and lunged at K.T. The Toreador was fast – faster than his foe – but he obviously had not had much practice stabbing unexpected visitors. The mercenary managed to sidestep, grabbed Du Lenne's arm by the wrist, and landed a crushing blow on the elbow with his free hand. The Toreador's arm was completely bent in the wrong direction, and his scream of pain found no voice.

K.T. could see that he had already defeated his target, and that all that remained was the killing. He could hardly believe that it had been so easy to kill a primogen. Then again, he realized, everything about this primogen screamed 'weakness' and 'inexperience.' He was physically incapable of fighting, and his inane plans appeared to include making a play for the seat of prince while the city was under siege. All things considered, K.T. knew, Roi and his soldiers were better off leaving this primogen alive. Du Lenne would only make things worse, and it was possible that his successor would have a solid head on his shoulders. K.T. smiled when he realized that killing Du Lenne was probably a bad move for the Sabbat. _Fuck him,_ the Gangrel thought happily. _Roi should have researched the situation better. Under most circumstances, I might consider leaving this clown alive for the time being and ask Roi if he's sure about killing him. Too bad for Roi that I hold grudges._ K.T. reflected again on what Roi had done to him. He thought about getting his head bounced off the table, about Roi seducing Erica with dreams of the Sabbat, and of testing him with every job. Fury was rolling off of K.T. in waves, and he went from thoughts of Roi to memories of other antagonists in his life.

Suddenly, a voice from deep down in the Gangrel's mind told him to get a grip, and he gathered his cool. When he finally regained control, he looked around him to see that there was blood all over the study; Du Lenne's body had been ripped to pieces, appearing to have been drawn and quartered in the center of the room. _Did I do that?_ he wondered. K.T. knew that those in the Gangrel clan always had closer contact with The Beast within than most other vampires, but he had never had it take control of him like that. _There's no way I did all that quietly,_ he realized suddenly. Without another thought he opened the window a crack and turned into a mist once again, even as voices were approaching down the hallway outside. By the time anyone arrived to help, K.T. was long gone, out into the night.

**VIII**

Johnny Yashida stopped his black Yukon outside the darkly foreboding home and scanned the streets nervously. There were more police cars than usual in the Garden District, but he figured that was to be expected. With the increased violence the city had recently seen, it made sense that the wealthy elite would see to it that patrols were increased around their homes. He stepped out of the vehicle and began to walk around to th rear when someone called out to him.

"Excuse me, sir, but could I see some I.D.?" a man asked, walking out from the shadow of a small elm. Johnny looked the man over and decided immediately that he was not kindred, and almost certainly not a ghoul. That would not have made sense here.

"Who are you?" Johnny asked suspiciously, casting a subtle glance over his own person. Under his black wool overcoat he was carrying several weapons, including his ninja-to, and he did not care to have them seen by non-kindred.

"Neighborhood watch," the man answered. Johnny nodded, knowing that it was common for off-duty police officers to make the rounds through the more affluent neighborhoods. Yashida had never taken the time to look into it, but he was certain that there was an exchange of either money or favors as a gratuity for these services. Yashida slowly took a wallet from his left inside coat pocket. He opened it for the man, who shined a penlight down on it. "Homer Thompson?" the man asked incredulously as he read the name on Yashida's fake Louisiana driver's license. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"Why, because I'm Asian?" Johnny asked, putting just the right blend of offense and anger in his voice, doing a capable job of hiding his amusement. He had chosen the name half-hoping that something like this would happen. "I'm only half-Japanese," Johnny explained haughtily. "My father's surname name was Thompson, and my grandfather's name was Homer. I don't see why it's so funny."

"I'm sorry, sir," the cop replied quickly. "I didn't mean any offense."

"That's all right," Johnny answered quickly, "I'm pretty much used to it. After grade school, nothing anyone says can really bother me." Johnny could hardly believe that the man had called him 'sir,' though. While Yashida was well past forty years old, his body appeared to be no older than twenty, maybe twenty-one.

"I bet grammar school was hell," the neighborhood watchman replied with an understanding nod. "You here visiting friends?"

"Actually, I'm going into the Martin house," Johnny replied, gesturing toward the Tremere chantry. "It's a business meeting."

"Really?" the man asked. "What business you in?" he asked, sounding much more like he was making conversation than continuing an interrogation. The change in tone made Johnny relax a slight bit, though he was fairly certain that the man before him had spent years perfecting that ingratiating change in tone.

"I'm in life insurance," Yashida replied with a thin smile, slightly disappointed that the man would never understand the slight joke he had just made. "Maybe you'd be interested in seeing what my company has to offer." He played up his part well, figuring that any low-life insurance salesman weasel would likely have made the same offer, trying to make any sale he possibly could.

"No, I'm a cop," the man said, confirming Johnny's earlier suspicions. "The department takes good care of our families in the event of anything unfortunate."

"Suit yourself," Johnny replied with a shrug, turning once more toward Carlos Martin's home. "I suppose I'm free to go, officer?"

"No problem," the man answered. "If you see anything suspicious, make sure you call it in."

_Something like the two corpses in the back of my truck?_ Johnny asked silently. "I'll make sure I do," he said, keeping any sarcastic remarks to himself. "You can't be too careful these days." He then walked away without another word. Two guards were standing inside the gate, which was one of only two openings onto the Tremere property, surrounded on all side by a six-foot brick wall. The other gate was the entrance to a circular drive and a large garage. Yashida could only guess at what mystical security measures were added to the slim physical barriers.

"Who are you?" one of the guards asked.

"I'm here to see Martin," Johnny answered. "I'm not entirely comfortable talking out here. If you would just let me inside the gate, I'll explain myself and the reason for my visit.

"We'd rather you just tell us before we let you in," one of the guards answered.

"That off-duty cop is probably watching us, and any delay in letting me in is only going to arouse suspicion," Johnny answered evenly.

"The cop works for us," the other guard replied. "There won't be a problem with him. One last chance. What do you want?"

"I'm a representative of the Telemon," Johnny answered, "and I'd really hate to have to say more until we're away from any unwanted listeners."

One of the guards opened the gate without another word, Johnny's limited identification seeming to have satisfied them enough. "We'll have to wait here a moment," one of the men said briefly. Within a minute a third man came up to the pair at the door and looked over Yashida.

"Please follow me," he instructed, and then turned to walk up the short walkway toward the house. "Now that we're free of any unwanted listeners, would you care to explain yourself more fully?" he asked.

"I'm Johnny Yashida," the small Telemon answered. "I came by to drop off a gift."

"Really?" the man asked, a disturbing tone in his voice. It was almost as if he knew exactly why Johnny had come, and was looking forward to any interrogation a little too much. The two crossed the threshold and into the building, Johnny wondering the whole time why his footsteps seemed quieter than usual. _Is the entrance enchanted or something? Or am I totally wigged out by being in a chantry and I'm over-reacting to everything?_ He only hoped that his anxiety was not showing.

The man gestured toward a chair in the foyer. "Please sit there until Mr. Martin comes to speak with you," he instructed. "There are things in here you wouldn't like to see. And others that wouldn't like to see you," he added eerily. "It would be best for all concerned if you just wait."

"That's not a problem," Yashida answered. One part of him had always wondered what it would be like to wander around a Tremere chantry, but his rational side would never allow him to do anything so foolhardy. He had already seen enough Tremere blood magic and mystical constructs in his short unlife to convince him that all things Tremere were best left alone.

The small Telemon sat in silence for no more than five minutes, all the while trying to absorb as much as he could about his surroundings. Everything about the building seemed mysterious, from the dark paneling to the thick scents of cinnamon and incense that hung in the air. Yashida was about to risk moving from his seat to more closely examine a portrait hanging on the wall when Carlos Martin came walking down the dimly lit main hall, a thin smile on his face. "It's wonderful to see you again, Mr. Yashida," he said pleasantly. He looked the Telemon over intently with a gaze that made Johnny somewhat nervous. "What is that?" he asked, gesturing toward Johnny's black suit. "It's not Armani, but close. I really like the cut."

"It's Trevani," Yashida answered, producing a puzzled look from his host. "Giovanni Trevani," Johnny explained. "He's a designer from Venice who just moved to Miami. I happened upon his stuff purely accidentally, but I was extremely impressed. I ordered several custom-made suits, and he was happy to oblige. He seems to take a slight bit of pleasure in adding additional pockets and sewing in gun holsters and sword scabbards," Johnny added. "I'd be happy to give you his number, if you'd like. Just please tell him I referred you. He might give me a break on my next order."

"I think I'd like that," Martin answered. "But let us get down to business, yes? I doubt you came here to discuss new trends in men's fashion. My great-grandchilde told me you came bearing gifts."

"A prisoner," Johnny explained. "He was a member of a Sabbat pack in Uptown."

"Yes, I've heard of them," Carlos replied. "Damage Control or something, yes?" Johnny only responded with a nod. "They've been making it difficult to feed as freely as we would like in that neighborhood. The college students have generally been one of our best food sources."

"I think obstructing the food supply was that pack's very purpose," Johnny answered. "That's the only reason I already eliminated them."

"Eliminated them?" Martin asked, either unable or unwilling to hide his surprise; Johnny could not decide which. "The entire pack?"

"The entire pack, in addition to a Sabbat spy that was placed in one of the local anarch gangs," Johnny answered. He noticed the slightly impressed look on the Tremere's face, and congratulated himself on a job well done. "I would have preferred to trail them for awhile, hoping that someone from that pack would have eventually led us to a haven or some members of the other packs, but, as you pointed out, feeding was becoming more difficult. We can't have problems feeding during a siege."

"Of course not," Martin agreed. "So, you have a prisoner," Martin said. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much," Johnny admitted. "His name is Riddick, and was the leader of the pack. I figured you'd want him more than the other guy."

"The other guy?" Martin asked curiously.

"We took two hostages," Johnny replied evenly. "I figured I'd present one as a gift to the gathered primogen, to show them that my clan has been busy enough earning its money."

"And you saved the best one for me alone," Martin replied. "I'm touched, Mr. Yashida."

"Don't be," Yashida answered. "I figure the primogen will either just kill any captives, or else stumble along in interrogation no better than my own clan would. The Tremere claim to have special, how shall we say... ah... methods of persuasion. It was my hope that you could get something more out of Riddick if left to your own devices. If you can find out where the bishop and the other packs are, that would be enough for me. What you do with him after that is none of my concern." While the delivery of Riddick was explained as a business transaction, Yashida knew that Martin would see it as the gift it was. He simply hoped the Tremere would remember his act of charity in the future.

"I will let you know as soon as we find out anything," Martin replied. "However, as for the other hostage, perhaps you would be best served by leaving him, as well. I can deliver him to the primogen for you."

"Wouldn't make the desired impression," Johnny said with a suspicious glance. _Best served?_ he wondered. _What did Martin mean by that? Something here is very wrong._

"Jules Du Lenne was killed earlier this evening," Martin answered. "While the primogen haven't officially gathered yet, there was a conference call. A man named David Kingman has claimed control of the Toreador clan and has accused members of your clan of being responsible for Du Lenne's death."

"Oh really?" Yashida asked, sounding none too impressed. "So we whacked a primogen in the same night we wiped out a pack of Sabbat? We must've been pretty busy. I think I'll ask for a raise."

"I haven't accused you, Mr. Yashida," Martin replied. "I was simply doing you the service of letting you know what some have been saying. It might be best to keep your people off the streets until this unfortunate misunderstanding is resolved. Of course, this current situation with Kingman may mean little in the long run," he added suddenly, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. "Another Toreador, Martina Silas, has also claimed leadership of the clan. It seems Kingman and Silas will duke it out for a while, and your employment should be secure at least until that's decided. If Kingman wins out, though, things could get uncomfortable for you here."

"Of course," Yashida responded, his brow furrowing in thought. While Johnny appeared to have plenty of time to concern himself with appearances, accusations, and strategies, he felt there was no time like the present to begin his work. "Why would the Toreador think we did it?"

"Because Du Lenne was killed in his own home, and there were no other victims," Martin answered simply. "Someone got past all of Du Lenne's guards and killed the primogen in his own study. You had come around tooting your own horn about being able to take out your enemies without endangering the Masquerade. Add that with the facts that Du Lenne was the only primogen to speak out against your clan's presence and the instant dislike the two of you seemed to take to each other. It seems some people were all too willing to put two and two together and come up with five."

"Great," Johnny muttered.

"I'll help you clear up this problem," Carlos offered. "It seems the least I can do in gratitude for the gift you so graciously brought me and my clan. If you ask me, I would guess an Assamite did the job. The Sabbat does have access to some Assamite _antitribu_."

"Probably," Johnny answered. "I guess I should get back to my commander and let him know what's up."

"You mean you're not the commander?" Martin asked, seeming genuinely surprised. "I had simply assumed that you were the one calling the shots."

"Nope," Johnny answered. "The Telemon clan isn't all about structure and discipline. It's also about doing the job right. My commander takes looks around personally and makes a great deal of his decisions based on what he sees. Then he also sends me to talk with all you guys, while all the time keeping himself insulated from you. There are some that might try to use certain abilities to affect the minds of our people," Yashida admitted, not feeling at all bad about one of his young clan's strategies. He figured allowing the information to get out into the open might actually serve to protect his clan in the future. "Not that you're one of the people we would expect not to play fairly," Johnny added slyly. "It's just that it's policy. We like having a system of buffers, to insulate our leaders from undue influence while in their decision-making process."

"I see," Martin said absently as Yashida rose to leave. "I do have one other question, Mr. Yashida, before you go," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"What's that?" Johnny asked.

"Your sword," Martin asked, referring to the ninja-to that was concealed underneath Johnny's coat. "Where did you get it?"

"From a dealer in Japantown in San Francisco," Johnny added simply. "The metal had been folded several times, creating over sixteen-thousand layers. I guess it's not quite up to par compared to some of the stuff made back in the day, but it's certainly better than most swords you'd find nowadays."

"No doubt," Martin replied, "but that's not entirely what I meant, and I think you know it."

"No, I figured not," Johnny admitted, hiding his glee. He had worn the sword to the chantry intentionally. He had had Heinrich Schacter, a mage, take the blade for a short while several years earlier, ostensibly to enchant it. While Johnny was relatively certain that the blade was every bit as magical as the wizard had assured him it was, Yashida had figured that wearing it to a Tremere chantry was the prefect way to test it – no magical weapon would have gone unnoticed by the Tremere. "It was enchanted by a mage that I knew, in return for services rendered."

"What services did you need to perform to get your hands on a weapon like that?" Martin asked.

"I helped him arrange to have a pack of garou run into a group of heavily armed Brujah and Ventrue enforcers," Johnny answered slyly, offering no more information.

"So these games are something you're used to playing," Martin concluded. "Fine, Mr. Yashida. I'll be in touch with you at some point in the near future when the dust settles. I think the primogen will be most impressed with your gift and recent successes. I doubt there will be much open hostility."

"Great," Yashida muttered. "I'd rather have open hostility than more of the back-stabbing shit that's all too common for our kind."

"Wouldn't we all?" Martin asked rhetorically. "I'll have my guards help you unload the bodies. Have a good night, Mr. Yashida."

Johnny left the chantry feeling slightly ill, wondering just how bad the situation actually was. If his clan was suspected of murdering a primogen, it was doubtful things could get much worse. Of course, if it was the Sabbat that was behind the attack, and if it was indeed an Assamite that had done the job, he could expect to make that Assamite's acquaintance in the near future. That definitely made things dangerous. He decided he had to get his clanmates together as quickly as possible, so that they could be reasonably certain they would survive the current crisis.

**IX**

"Sit down, Mr. Corben," Roi said with a smile, his demeanor having shifted completely from the enraged attitude he had displayed when K.T. had last seen him.

"I'd rather stand," the Gangrel replied, making certain he would not be sitting across from the bishop ever again.

"As you wish," Roi returned, a look in his eye making K.T. think the bishop could read his thoughts. "I am extremely pleased with your work earlier," the bishop commented. "You have exceeded my greatest expectations."

"I figured it was another attempt to get me to break the Masquerade," K.T. said evenly. "I thought you'd be pissed again that I was able to do the job too quietly."

"On the contrary, I hoped you would succeed in using the same discretion you have displayed in all of your previous jobs," Roi responded. "This particular assignment needed to be done with care. It needed to be efficient."

"Why?" K.T. asked, now suddenly curious as to Roi's motives.

"Because that is how the Telemon would have done it," Roi answered.

"The Telemon?" K.T. asked, feigning surprise at the mention of the name.

"They're a clan of Camarilla mercenaries," the bishop said.

"I know who they are," K.T. said, "I just didn't know they were here." He knew he needed to admit to knowing who the Telemon were. To do otherwise would have cast suspicion over him. One in K.T.'s line of work needed to know who the competition was.

"They won't be here for much longer," Roi answered. "I had rather thought I would keep Du Lenne securely in his place controlling the Toreador. He was incredibly inept and was certain to run his own clan, and perhaps a couple of others, straight into the ground." K.T. nodded as Roi spoke, not completely surprised at the revelation that Roi knew exactly how incapable Du Lenne had been during crisis situations. That still left the question of why Roi would kill Du Lenne if he had so much to gain from keeping him alive. "Unfortunately," the bishop continued, "I was not given the luxury of keeping Du Lenne in place. Some of my superiors have advised me that it would certainly be in my best interest to remove the Telemon from the situation. Do you agree?" he suddenly asked very pointedly.

"Perhaps," K.T. answered ambiguously. "I've met a couple of them, and they're all very young. I've heard they're efficient, but I don't know how effective they would be against your forces."

"Effective enough," Roi growled, his mood darkening as quickly as if someone had simply turned off a light switch in a room. "Riddick's pack has apparently been exterminated, and I can only assume that the Telemon were behind it."

"The whole pack?" K.T. asked, unable to hide his surprise. He knew that Riddick and his cronies were not as incredibly formidable as some of the Sabbat packs K.T. had seen in New York, but they were, nonetheless, a powerful group. The mercenary was impressed at his counterparts' ability to win such an impressive victory so quickly.

"The whole pack, and a spy in an anarch gang," Roi spat. "My people had effectively closed off Uptown from the free feeding that they natives were accustomed to. In a short time we would have been able to see the effects of our 'blockade.' Instead, we're back at square one, with the exception of me now having two packs to work with instead of three."

"I see," K.T. muttered. He knew this would likely mean a far heavier workload for him. He would have to remember to thank Johnny. "In that case, maybe you should take out the Telemon."

"As I first thought," Roi answered, his face offering no clue as to whether or not he was still searching K.T. for signs of betrayal. "I was going to give the job to you and Erica. It seemed only fitting that I use my mercenaries to destroy theirs. Then I heard a wonderful little tidbit from one of my Toreador spies."

"And what was that?" K.T. asked.

"The Telemon only work for princes," the bishop replied. "They appear to want to stay out of purely local problems."

"Makes sense," the mercenary said with a nod. "I wish I had used that policy a few times. My life certainly would have been a lot simpler."

"I bet," Roi commented. "The Telemon are only here working now because the Conclave of Primogen voted unanimously to have the Telemon stay. Apparently, if even one of the primogen reverses his position, the Telemon will pack up and leave."

"I get it," K.T. responded with a knowing look. He could see exactly where this was going. "So you decided to do politically what would take far longer to do militarily," he said.

"You catch on rather quickly, Mr. Corben," Roi commented. "Yes, I plan to have Du Lenne's successor be a man of my choosing. He will make certain that the Telemon contract is not renewed. Once the grunts are gone, it will be open season on the locals. Of course, without Riddick's pack we will still be hard-pressed, but I think in the end we should be able to take the city."

"Great," K.T. replied with less enthusiasm than he figured Roi would have liked to hear. "So did you call me here simply to congratulate me and gloat, or did you have something special in mind?"

"When you called you said you had some pent up aggression," Roi said, referring to K.T.'s earlier phone call. "From what I heard, you must have taken out a lot of it on Du Lenne. His study apparently resembled the inside of a slaughterhouse when his guards finally arrived on the scene. I was wondering if you have worked everything out of your system yet."

"Why?" K.T. asked, getting a slight twinge of anger in the back of his mind. He could feel heat start to build up in his chest, the ignition of a small fire that he knew would grow into an inferno quickly enough. "You got something else for me?"

"As a matter of fact I do," Roi said. "I will warn you, however, that this is not a job that you might be able to do with absolute subtlety. However, I think you might still find it enjoyable."

"What is it?" K.T. said with a malevolent stare.

"Once the Telemon are gone, the local Brujah, both anarch and not, will likely be the largest nuisance," the bishop said. "I was wondering if you would be kind enough to wipe them out, so that my people will be able to focus more on the city's elders."

"So that your people are able to kill the ones worthy of diablerie," K.T. concluded. Roi simply nodded in confirmation. "Sure, I can wipe out the rabble for you," he said. "Just give me a list of places where I can find them."

_To be continued……………………………………_


	6. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 5

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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CHAPTER 5

**I**

Johnny Yashida walked into Gregory Ash's home once again, not particularly looking forward to this meeting of the primogen. He and his clan had been able to maneuver around being dismissed from the city in his first encounter with the kindred leaders of New Orleans, but only after some debate and cajoling. By the second week it seemed as if the Telemon's presence would be in doubt once again, as one of the two challengers for the seat of Toreador primogen was firmly against the presence of the mercenaries. By the time of the Wednesday meeting, however, no Toreador primogen had yet been decided. It was not until two days later that David Kingman, an outspoken critic of the Telemon, was able to consolidate his power. Now he was able to take part in a meeting, and Yashida knew he faced an uphill battle in continuing his clan's employment. _Well, at least it looks like I'll probably survive another siege_ he thought, trying to find the silver lining in his clan's latest cloud_. What are the odds of that?_

As before, Yashida was frisked before being led into the basement. He took the walk down to the meeting room, his surroundings beginning to feel more familiar with his repeated exposure. The guards knocked, the door was opened, and Johnny was ushered in to face what would likely be one of the most difficult meetings he had ever had.

"Welcome back, Mr. Yashida," a new man in a black suit said from the head of the table. Judging from the man's placement at the table, Yashida guessed that this was a Ventrue. Until a new prince was chosen, New Orleans was still technically considered a Ventrue city, and it appeared as if the Ventrue had finally found a capable man to replace Southpaw. "My name is Timothy Sheridan," the man said evenly. "I'm the new Ventrue primogen. Southpaw has finally been relieved of the unwanted burden of leading our clan."

"I'm sure he's thankful for that," Johnny said truthfully, knowing that the position of primogen was something Southpaw was simply not ready for. To the young Ventrue's credit, he had seemed able to recognize his insufficiency in the role and had probably recruited Sheridan himself.

"Of course," Sheridan replied, his face revealing no trace of emotion. Johnny made a mental note to never play poker with this new primogen. "Won't you join us?" Sheridan asked, gesturing toward a seat at the table.

"No thanks," the Telemon said. "The table is for the primogen. I have no place seated amongst you."

"Well said," O'Reilly put in, looking over the Telemon as if he was searching for something. "But we just decided that we're tired of having to crane our necks up to make eye contact with you. Besides, I think Sheridan hates the thought of having to look up at the hired help." A man in a black leather biker jacket, another new face, chuckled slightly at the Malkavian's words, but Johnny hid his own amusement and took the seat that was offered. Yashida looked amongst the faces and saw that a third new face was also amongst them. This man, seated in the seat of the Toreador, was the source of Yashida's anxiety.

"Well, I think we know the matter we're here to discuss," Sheridan said, seemingly calling the meeting to order. "There are many things to cover, so let's get right to the matter of the Telemon and get that over with first."

"Excellent idea," Carlos Martin said. "Shall we just go right to the vote, or does anyone voice objections to their presence?" he asked, directing his gaze directly at the Toreador.

"You know I want him gone," the man said. "My name is David Kingman," the Toreador said, introducing himself to Johnny. "You killed my predecessor, and I want you the hell out of my city."

"That's a serious accusation," Sheridan stated. "I assume you have evidence to back up your claim."

"Nothing concrete," Kingman admitted. "But you all know how Yashida seemed to get off on the wrong foot with Du Lenne. He must have known that Du Lenne would eventually decide to cease their employment, and so the Telemon decided to extinguish him to save their substantial income."

"A valid accusation," Jasper commented, leaning back comfortably in his chair. Johnny hid his surprise at the Gangrel's apparent support of the Toreador, hoping that Jasper was not yet done talking. His patience was rewarded. "But by your own admission you lack any evidence," Jasper added. "I would think by now you could have even fabricated some if there was any basis at all. You expect us to buy into any of this?"

"No," Kingman responded. "It is not my desire to have the Telemon punished. This is not a trial, so I don't need to convince you of anything. Let's be honest, shall we? Du Lenne was an overbearing snob with no ability to lead a dog on a leash, no less an entire clan of independent-minded kindred that by their very nature are more interested in creating beauty than waging war. I have been told that even during this siege he was planning to make a play for control of the city. Such foolishness deserves the fate he received; I will shed no tears for his loss. That does not mean, however, that I will gladly continue to share my home with the mercenaries I believe responsible for his death. As I said, this is not a trial; it's only a business meeting. The business to be decided is whether or not to continue the contract of the Telemon, and I state that I will not agree to such a proposition. From my understanding of Mr. Yashida's terms, my decision means that he and his clanmates will now leave the city."

"Fool!" Calaban spat. "You think we can hold off the Sabbat as well without the Telemon?"

"Probably not," Kingman answered evenly. "That doesn't concern me, though. In the end I believe we will prevail. We can win without the grunts."

"Only at the cost of more of our own dead," Martin pointed out. "Are you so willing to throw away the lives of those you now claim to lead?"

"I'm tired of the killings," the man in the leather jacket put in." Yashida figured it safe to assume that this was the latest Brujah chosen to represent his clan. "My brothers and sisters in the streets are being cut down by some guy the younger ones are calling the Angel of Death. Either you hire the Telemon again and have them give us some support, or you send some of your own troops out there to do something productive. 'Cause otherwise there won't be any of us left to cover your asses when your time comes."

"Agreed," Calaban put in. "The Brujah and Nosferatu have proven to be especially vulnerable to the Sabbat invaders, while the rest of you hide behind your thick walls and rows of guards. The Telemon have wiped out an entire pack on their own, but I have seen none of the clans of this city having anywhere near as much success. Extend the Telemons' contract and send them out there. My clan is sick of your impotence – we need help."

"That's why the Telemon are valuable to us," Martin said, directing a piercing gaze at Kingman. "Having them takes the heat off of those of us that would hold the city. I don't have to expose my own people if I can send the Telemon to do the same job."

"How practical of you," Kingman retorted. "But what happens if the Telemon decide you are as much a threat to them as Du Lenne was? Do you actually think you have derived any loyalty from the mercenaries?"

"Do you actually think I've had a lobotomy?" Martin asked in reply. "They're hired guns, and no more. The fact that they have never worked for anyone but the Camarilla helps their case, but is not dispositive. In the end there is, of course, no loyalty beyond the money they're paid. At least we know what their motivation is, though."

"Meaning?" Kingman asked defensively.

At that moment there was another knock on the door, matching the cadence that had been used when Yashida had been led into the basement. Every eye at the table turned toward the door, and the two guards grasped Uzis in their hands as they moved to see who was outside. One opened the door slowly as the other covered him. Two guards from upstairs were waiting, flanking a third man that Johnny had never seen before. The man was short, standing under five and a half feet tall, and appeared to be about fifty years old. He was obviously of Japanese heritage, and had a cleanly shaven, bald head.

"Can I help you? Sheridan asked. "This is only a meeting for the primogen. If you have any business with me or anyone else, you will have to wait outside."

"No," the man said with a thin smile. "I'm not here to ask favors or make announcements," he said in a low, monotone voice holding only the faintest hint of a Japanese accent. "I am here to join you. I am the Toreador primogen."

"What?!" Kingman shouted, rising from his chair. "I had but one challenger for my position, and she's dead now. Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Yoshi," the man answered. "As I said, I am the Toreador primogen."

"Oh, really?" Kingman asked. "I think most of our clanmates would disagree."

"Not once they find out you are _antitribu,_" Yoshi replied. Johnny hoped he hid his surprise better than at least the Brujah did. The Brujah was kneeling up in his seat, wearing a devilish smile on his face. _Antitribu,_ Johnny thought, knowing that such an accusation would require considerable evidence. Yoshi was claiming that Kingman was a member of the antitribe of the Toreador, those that had turned against the traditional Toreador affiliation with the Camarilla and instead joined the Sabbat.

"You shouldn't make such reckless accusations," Kingman shot back threateningly. "I've killed kindred for far less."

"You won't kill me," Yoshi said evenly, his voice betraying neither fear nor confidence. He seemed as if he was stating a fact that should have been obvious to all. "You have this one chance to leave this building and run back to your Sabbat masters. If you do not do so, you will be destroyed. The choice is yours."

"I am not Sabbat," Kingman responded. "You would need proof to support your claim, and I know none can be produced against me, for I am innocent of your slanderous charges."

"I have no interest in presenting proof," Yoshi answered. "You have made it clear that you vote to have the Telemon sent away from the city. I consider this a foolish decision that could lead not only to the ruin of our clan, but also to the expulsion of the Camarilla from the city. I disagree with your leadership, and I thus make a proper challenge to your position. I don't need to prove complicity with the Sabbat to have you removed."

"It's not quite as simple as making a challenge," Kingman answered. "You need to have other leaders accept your actions."

"The Toreador of this city have, unfortunately, become used to being followers," Yoshi replied. "They will follow whoever seems strong enough and willing to lead them. I fit that description. As for any other leaders in this city, there is no prince to stop me from creating a civil war within my own clan, if that is what it comes to. The other primogen, I think, will not support you. You oppose them all on the one decision that was critical enough to bring them all here even with the city under siege. The Brujah and Nosferatu will support me because they want to avenge their losses. None of the other clans will give them the support they desire, so they will want every hired gun you can get your hands on – including the Telemon. The Tremere and Ventrue will wish to prevent exposing their own people to the diablerie of the Sabbat, and thus also want the Telemon. They will therefore support me, as well. The Malkavians will do what is in their best interest, and having the Telemon as a human shield definitely seems to be advantageous, so they will also support me."

"So you think you can just waltz in and have the other primogen vote me out?" Kingman asked. "Our people will not allow it."

"Perhaps some of the elders would object to permitting such a dangerous precedent," Yoshi admitted, "but you will not have a chance to take your case before them. I have already spoken to the three that count, and they have lent their support, thus abandoning you." Kingman's face went a shade paler, revealing that he knew exactly who Yoshi had spoken to in order to undercut the new primogen's political support. "I say again, Kingman, return to your Sabbat masters or be destroyed. As before, the choice is up to you."

"And if you fail to destroy me?" Kingman asked menacingly, his hands tightening into fists.

"That is not possible," Yoshi said evenly. "However, I will humor you. If you challenge me and win, you will remain as primogen. There is no one else in our clan willing to make a play for control. You will have your way, and the Telemon will be expelled."

"Then I allow your challenge," Kingman said magnanimously. "A duel?"

"I accept," Yoshi said, "and I choose swords as the weapon."

"A foolish choice," Kingman replied. "Even before I was embraced, I was the finest swordsman in England."

"As you may have noticed, I am not from England," Yoshi answered, not appearing willing to be drawn into a pissing contest with his rival.

"The grounds include a rather spacious yard," Sheridan interjected. "If you two happen to have your weapons with you, we can get this over with immediately and return to business."

"Fine with me," Kingman said.

"As you wish," Yoshi responded. "The sooner, the better."

The primogen walked silently into Ash's 'yard.' The area behind the main building would have been better described as a garden. The surprisingly large enclosure held a beautiful array of plants, with a broad willow tree dominating the center. For the slightest moment Yashida wondered what the property taxes would have to be on a small estate like this in the middle of the Garden District, but then immediately remembered the Homestead Exemption. Ash had likely never paid a penny.

"You need not worry about any noise back here," Martin informed the two combatants. "I will make sure the sounds of this battle do not reach the ears of the mortals." Kingman nodded in reply, but Yoshi ignored the comment, instead kneeling on the ground with his katana before him, closing his eyes as if to focus his concentration.

"Any time now would be nice," Kingman complained, drawing his own longsword from its surprisingly unadorned scabbard. Without a word Yoshi stood and bowed his head slightly toward his opponent. Kingman did not bother to return the gesture. "To the death, then," Kingman announced.

"I never thought I'd see two Toreador have the balls to fight to the death," someone muttered. Yashida looked to his right and saw the Brujah representative smiling over at him, and he smiled back and shuffled his feet over in the direction of the Brujah.

"So how'd you end up here?" Johnny asked.

"Well, Sandy's been coming to the meetings since this all started, but she got whacked a couple of nights ago," the Brujah said. "She told me it was a lot more fun at the meetings than she expected, so when they asked for volunteers to come up here to get some help from our would-be leaders, I volunteered. You know, she was right, this shit's a blast. I mean, it's even better than going to watch the Brass."

Johnny's smile broadened as he pondered the comparison between a meeting of the primogen and a minor-league hockey game. Somehow, it just seemed to fit. Any other thoughts were cut off, however, by a sharp clang of steel on steel. Yashida looked up at the two challengers for the position of primogen, trying the gauge the odds of either one winning. Yoshi was immediately pressing the attack, whirling at incredible speeds, keeping Kingman firmly on the defensive. Johnny attributed some of the Japanese Toreador's initial advantage to his weapon. The katana was a faster, lighter weapon made for use against the lacquered armor of medieval samurai. The longsword that Kingman was using, however, was developed in an area that was far richer in minerals. That meant more metal, which in turn meant more metal armor. The longsword was slower, but balanced heavier in the blade. It might be harder for Kingman to be quick enough to find an opening, but if he cut his opponent, it would likely cause a more serious wound than one of Yoshi's thin slices.

Almost on cue with Yashida's thoughts, Yoshi scored first blood, leaving a paper-thin slash in Kingman's left sleeve, causing his white shirt to quickly become stained deep red. Neither man spoke, instead focusing all of his attention and energy on his rival. After the first cut, Kingman had fallen back a couple of steps to reevaluate Yoshi, while the Japanese Toreador allowed him the space as he seemed to gather his energy for another pass.

In a flash the battle was rejoined, with each man seeming to move even faster than he had before. Yashida saw the looks of awe on some of his counterparts' faces and could only smile. He had to admit that he lacked the skills of either man, but he could at least have kept up with Kingman, if not Yoshi. Their undead bodies had become little more than blurs, but Yashida was able to dissect each move and examine each man's strategy. It was one of the first signs of his potent blood that he had ever seen. He had grown stronger recently, and was only now beginning to realize how different he was from the others that were gathered around. Yashida's mind seemed to work faster, imparting the ability to analyze what was before him. Compared to the others, he felt as if he was almost watching the duel in slow motion. The thought was both exhilarating and unsettling.

Kingman was again on the defensive, with Yoshi pressing him steadily backward toward the willow tree. The Englishman seemed to sense that he was running out of room, and suddenly, unexpectedly, switched tactics and lunged at his smaller opponent. The move caught Yoshi completely by surprise, and only his superior skills allowed him to partially dodge a slash that would have easily killed a mortal man. As it was, Kingman's sword cleaved into Yoshi's left shoulder, almost completely taking the arm off. Yoshi grunted, but did not cry out. He released his left hand's grip on the katana and swung in a wide arc with his right, forcing Kingman to back off a couple of steps. Yashida recognized the move for what it was – a delaying tactic, and no more. Yoshi was in trouble, and Johnny knew that his clan would very likely be leaving the city.

Kingman circled warily, striking conservatively, keeping enough pressure on Yoshi to prevent him from concentrating on healing his wounds, while at the same time preventing Yoshi from scoring a major hit that would even up the odds a little. Yoshi kept his left side away from his opponent, and Johnny could see the look of disgust on the Brujah's face as he watched Yoshi's arm swing around behind him, held on by only a thin piece of flesh.

"If you just kneel down, I will make the end quick," Kingman offered. "The fight is obviously mine. You were a good challenger, but there's no shame in losing to the best."

Yoshi did not reply with words, but what happened next made his intentions clear. Johnny saw a flickering, purple-blue flame ignite on Yoshi's sword, the pale light licking at the steel and dancing up and down the blade. Kingman's eyes went wide with surprise, but he maintained his calm demeanor.

"A magical sword?" he asked through clenched teeth. "I hardly think that's fair."

Yoshi did not reply, but moved toward his adversary once again. The katana swung out in a tight arc, and then immediately came back in a backhanded swing. Kingman completely dodged both attacks, clearly unwilling to allow the two blades to meet. The Japanese Toreador pressed the attack harder, seeming to grow faster with every inch of distance he closed between him and his foe. Kingman continued to dodge completely, until he stepped badly and lost his balance momentarily. The two swords met in a fierce ring of metal, and the fire along the edge of Yoshi's blade died instantly. He smiled thinly, and Kingman could not hide his surprise that there had apparently been no effect. Only then did Yoshi grasp his sword once again with his left hand, revealing that he had used his moments of advantage to heal his grievous wound.

Kingman snorted as he realized he had been tricked into believing the sword had some sort of mystical powers, and he attempted to press the attack once more. "I had you once already," he gloated. "I can do it again."

Yoshi continued to hold his silence and parried each of his opponent's strikes, apparently with ease. His katana moved effortlessly, almost as if the sword was guiding its owner rather than the other way around. Kingman attacked from the left, from the right, and tried to press head-on through Yoshi's defenses. None of his attacks succeeded. Johnny could see that the advantage had swung completely around and decided that Kingman had lost the only chance he was likely to get during his duel. Kingman's eyes began to grow unsettled, and Johnny knew that the Englishman was likely getting to the end of his blood supply. A vampire could only hold so much blood within his body, and the superhumanly fast motion of the vampires required both of them to use their mystical vitae. Kingman had the look of a marathon runner at the twenty-fourth mile, wondering if he had enough in him to reach the finish line.

Johnny noticed that Yoshi was not looking much better, especially after he had used a great amount of his blood to mend the wound in his shoulder. The gash was obviously not completely healed, but the arm was no longer hanging by a thread. Yoshi began to press the attack himself, aiming a group of strikes at Kingman's midsection. Johnny remembered Uiko using a similar tactic in one of his most recent training sessions, and guessed that Yoshi was setting Kingman up, preparing his for an unexpected slash at either his head or legs. Even as the thought crossed Johnny's mind, the expected strike came, aimed directly at Kingman's eyes. The Englishman appeared to have guessed Yoshi's intentions, and blocked the attack even as his body crumpled. It was only then that Johnny realized what Yoshi had been doing – he had actually been planning to sneak a kick into his opponent's midsection. With both swords raised high, the leg sneaked through lightning-fast, catching the Englishman off-guard and knocking him off-balance. In one, fluid motion Yoshi took a half-step back, gathering his strength, and then a full step forward, slashing Kingman's right leg at the knee. The razor sharp katana bit through Kingman's flesh and bone, severing the joint at the point of contact. Kingman howled in pain as he tumbled down on his right side. He dropped his sword and grabbed his lower leg, pressing it to his knee, as if to reattach it. In his moment of panic the duel was forgotten, and Yoshi brought his sword down in a vicious arc, severing Kingman's head from its shoulders.

"I believe we may now continue our meeting, yes?" Sheridan asked, not missing a beat. No congratulations were offered or accepted. The group of vampires walked quickly back inside the building to continue with their business.

As they all walked through the door, Yoshi looked the men over briefly, as if deciding whether to speak. "Is the vote on the Telemon the only major issue this evening?" he asked weakly. All heads nodded in reply. "Then know that the Toreador support the renewal of the mercenaries' contract," he muttered. "I believe that should create the required unanimous vote. I will now take my leave of you."

-------------------------------------------------

"I'm glad you agreed to speak with me," Southpaw commented as he and Yashida sat down across from each other, with Southpaw taking his sire's old seat behind the mahogany desk.

"I've come to realize just how important your problem is," Johnny answered. "The primogen are at each other's throats, and they're all playing the same game – they're hiding as much as they can so that the other clans take more of a beating. They simply can't work together. I was hired to help defeat this siege, and every night I become more convinced that victory is impossible without a prince."

"And we can't elect a prince until we discover who's responsible for the death of the last one," Southpaw concluded. "It seems your problem and mine are inseparable."

"Seems that way," Johnny agreed. "Not that I mind, of course. I'll be well paid for solving your problem. In fact, I'll be better paid to play detective than I would be to risk my life fighting the Sabbat. The one problem is that I happen to like hanging out with Brujah, and they're getting their asses kicked seven ways to Sunday. This has to stop."

"Have you uncovered anything yet?" Southpaw asked.

"I've checked with several sources in the city, but not much has come up," Yashida replied. If Southpaw was surprised that Yashida had a network of informants in the city, he hid it well. "It seems that, of course, just about everyone had the means and motive to kill him, but few would realistically have done it. Are you so certain the Sabbat was not involved?"

"Ash knew about the Sabbat's siege," Southpaw pointed out. "He had taken every conceivable precaution against assassination."

"Meaning that whoever it was probably knew him," Johnny concluded. "That's the only way they could have gotten close enough."

"But they would have had to alter the memories of the guards," the Ventrue reasoned. "Someone would have to have seen, or at least heard, something."

"How much do you trust the guards?" Yashida asked.

"All of them are blood bound, either to me, Ash, or Fleming," Southpaw responded. "It would have gone against a blood bond to willingly destroy my sire. Even bribing a guard to look the other way would not have been an option for an assassin. I can't imagine how they did it."

"So we're back to it not being an inside job?" Johnny asked, trying to figure out exactly which theory seemed more plausible at the moment.

"I don't know," Southpaw admitted. "The defenses were as tight as they could have possibly been. I'm not saying the building was completely impregnable, of course. I don't think it's possible to make anything impregnable in our world. But it's inconceivable to me that someone not only beat the defenses to get in, but also killed my sire without any hint of the attack, and then beat the defenses a second time on the way out."

"Does seem unlikely," Yashida agreed. The small Telemon wondered whether he would have been able to achieve such a feat, and decided against it. He might have been able to get into the building, and maybe even back out again. But going through the building, filled as it was with guards, and then killing the prince without a sound, seemed a little farfetched. He doubted anyone under a hundred years old could have met with such success. "Do you mind if I look around the house?" Johnny asked suddenly. "Maybe I'll see something you and your people overlooked."

"I don't know," Southpaw replied hesitantly. "If I agree, you'll have to stay out of certain areas."

"Like where?" Johnny asked curiously.

"Certain areas," Southpaw repeated. "I'll make it perfectly clear where you can and can't go before you conduct your search."

"I want to do it now," Johnny answered.

"Out of the question," Southpaw stated emphatically, his brow twitching slightly as he spoke. Yashida could tell that the Ventrue was getting extremely tense.

"Look," Johnny said, trying to explain the situation, "every minute has your guards walking over the floors and checking the windows more and more. Any clues, should we be lucky to find any this long after the fact, are almost certain to have been destroyed by the time you secure everything enough to be comfortable with me looking through the building. Look, you can walk right along beside me if you want," the Telemon compromised. "I'm not up to anything bad. I just want the money for solving your little problem, and I think it's best that I start at the very beginning."

"Very well," the Ventrue relented. "I'll allow you to see everything but the basement."

"I've already been in the basement," Yashida pointed out.

"Not that basement," Southpaw answered, referring to the highly secure room that served as the meeting place of the primogen. "There's a second basement, adjoining the first. I can't permit you to go in there."

"Why not?" Yashida asked.

"Because that's the certain place that's off limits," Southpaw said evenly. "That is the condition of your search. You don't need to agree, but you also don't need to look through the house, either."

"I take your point," Johnny replied. "Let's get this underway, then. Show me the house."

The two vampires began to walk slowly through the building, Johnny carefully looking over every inch of space that was shown to him. He paid special attention to alarms on the windows and the motion sensors in the halls. He watched the guards, noting that each one moved in what appeared to be a set course through the house. Once their pattern was discerned, he also counted off the time each took to go through the whole course. Yashida wanted to make certain that he would be able to break into the building at any point should the need ever arise.

As he searched for any clues, he increasingly felt as if the need for a break-in would arise. As Southpaw had assured him, there appeared to be no sign of forced entry. In fact, none of the windows appeared to have been opened in years.

"Have you found anything?" Southpaw asked after about forty-five minutes of careful examination of every window and doorway.

"No," Johnny admitted reluctantly. "If someone came in here unbidden, I can't see how they did it."

"Neither could we."

"How was Ash killed?" Johnny asked, hoping that this time he would gain more information than he had the last time he had asked the question.

"I already told you that's an internal matter," Southpaw stated evenly. "I haven't changed my mind about that."

"You've already come this far," Johnny pointed out. "You're allowing me to go through your home, going over your defenses with a fine-tooth comb. After all that, you still won't tell me how your sire was killed? It might be important."

"If I tell you, it's for your ears only," Southpaw replied. "I don't want this getting around."

"Okay," Yashida agreed. He hoped he would finally get a clue that might allow him to get closer to the five million dollars he wanted so badly.

"He was diablerized," Southpaw said.

"Diablerie points toward the Sabbat, despite what you say. But that's it?" Johnny asked. "Don't you have any other details for me? Come on, there has to be more than that. Was he shot? Stabbed? Beaten with a rolling pin? What's the deal?"

"There were no physical wounds," Southpaw answered. "Well, no wounds except for the bite marks, that is. He might have been knocked around a little bit, but there's not really much of a way to tell for sure. It's not like vampires bruise very easily."

"A good point," Johnny admitted. "Did you look for any broken bones? If there was a struggle, there would probably be broken ribs."

"The body seemed intact," the Ventrue said.

"Well, I guess that would likely rule out the Sabbat."

"It appeared that the prince was simply overwhelmed and pinned down while his killer drained him dry," Southpaw stated.

"Either that, or he let his attacker kill him," Johnny replied.

"And what are the chances of that?" Southpaw asked.

"He could have been dominated so thoroughly that he stood there while the assassin disposed of him."

"I seriously doubt it," Southpaw answered. "My sire had a strong will. He would not have simply allowed anyone to kill him. In fact, he rarely let anyone, even me, within arm's reach of him. He was a little paranoid."

"As are most princes," Johnny put in. "You know, every answer I get only seems to lead to more questions. Where was he killed?"

"In his chambers," Southpaw said. "We haven't gotten to them yet."

"Let's go there now," Johnny said. The two kindred walked down the hall to a flight of stairs, up to the third floor, and into a door halfway down that level's hallway. Southpaw stopped, took out a key, and opened the thick oak door, not bothering to stop long enough to admire the intricate carving of what Johnny guessed to be a depiction of St. George's battle against a dragon.

"This is it," the Ventrue said, motioning for the Telemon to follow him into the room. Johnny stepped lightly into what seemed a different world. If the regent's house was richly decorated, his own room was nothing short of opulent.

"Nice digs," Johnny commented, looking over the Persian rug, the mahogany furniture, and the ornate tapestries hanging on the walls. "Are there any windows?"

"Yes," the Ventrue answered. He walked across the room and pulled back a tapestry, revealing one large window.

"That's not exactly the best way to increase security," Yashida commented. "I would have expected him to have that bricked up."

"It's two-inch thick bullet-resistant glass," the Ventrue explained. "There's no way to get through that without raising a general alarm and allowing the regent plenty of time to escape any attackers."

"Does the window open?" Johnny asked curiously.

"Yes," Southpaw admitted. "But it's got a magnetic lock with a ten-digit passcode, plus a second, manual locking mechanism on the inside. It would be easier just to shoot through it."

"No doubt about that," Johnny answered, "but the easiest way isn't necessarily the best way if you need to assassinate the occupant." He pored over the manual locking mechanism, impressed at how intricate the workings seemed to be. Before anyone could even attempt to open it, they would have to figure it out. Then, once it was figured out, they would have to find a way to open it from the outside. It seemed impossible. "Anyone ever come in here anymore?" Johnny asked absently. "There any chance at all that if this was the entry point we would be able to find any clues, or are they likely to have been cleaned up by some ghoul maid?"

"No one has been in here since we completed our investigation," Southpaw said.

"I see," Johnny replied, not letting on at all how interesting he found the information.

"Are those motion sensors outside?" he asked, seeing three mechanisms outside the window. He craned his neck and looked at the top of the windowpane, and saw a fourth. A different sensor guarded each of the four sides of the window, making it impossible to approach from outside.

"There are four of them," Southpaw said, confirming the Telemon's own analysis.

"Are they all working properly?" Johnny asked.

"We already checked them," Southpaw said.

"Mind if I borrow one?" Johnny asked. "I'd like to see for myself if they were tampered with."

"I don't think so," the Ventrue replied.

"The house would be almost as secure without one of the four," Johnny pointed out. "They only added one extra layer of defense because of the regent's presence. Now that he's gone, you don't really need it, do you?"

"I guess not," Southpaw admitted.

"You can give me the one on the bottom," Johnny said. The other three would probably still cover every bit of the window anyway. It looks like they all overlap each other."

"Fine," the Ventrue agreed. He opened the manual lock, and then looked at Johnny with what appeared to be an irritated expression. "You mind turning around while I enter the code?"

"Oh, not at all," Johnny answered innocently. "You still think I'm up to something?"

"Always," Southpaw said with a grin that belied his professed suspicion. Johnny heard the Ventrue tapping on the keypad, but paid him the courtesy of not trying to watch without permission. Once the locks were undone, Southpaw started to lean outside the window.

"I could do that for you," Yashida offered.

"I got it," the Ventrue assured him.

"How much do you know about security equipment?" the Telemon asked. "Let me do it. At least if I break something, I'll know what I did and won't think it was done by the assassin."

"Good point," the Ventrue agreed. Southpaw pulled his torso back through the window, betraying a slightly relieved expression. Just as Johnny was about to lean out, the door to the room opened suddenly and two armed guards rushed in.

"What do you want?" Southpaw asked.

"The motion sensors just went off," one of the guards stated evenly.

"No shit," Southpaw replied. "I wonder why that happened."

"So the situation is under control?"

"Yes," the Ventrue assured his sentries. "We're checking for any signs of tampering,"

"Yes, sir," both guards responded at once, and turned to leave the room.

"Well, I guess they're working right now," Johnny surmised.

"Guess so," the Ventrue agreed.

Without another word Johnny leaned out the window and started to examine the bottom sensor, checking how it was attached to the exterior wall, and double-checking that it was supplied with electricity from the building. "You have a knife I can borrow?" Johnny asked.

"Why?" Southpaw asked.

"I need to cut these wires out here, and I don't have a knife," Yashida explained. "If you prefer, I guess I could go to the trouble of unhooking all this wiring, but that would probably take about an hour. I figured you'd have better things to do with your time. You telling me you can't afford to replace the wiring?"

"Not at all."

"You know, whether I find anything or not, you should probably replace all these sensors anyway," Johnny said. "At least before anyone else moves into the room, that is."

"Probably," the Ventrue agreed.

Johnny glanced back at his host as Southpaw dug a knife out of his pocket. "You should probably watch as I take the knife to the wires," Johnny said. "If anything else ever goes wrong here, I don't want you blaming me for shorting out the system or something."

"Fine," Southpaw grumbled. Yashida smiled as he went to work detaching the camera from the building. Judging from Southpaw's tone, the Telemon guessed that he had accomplished his goal of irritating the Ventrue. _Serves him right for making me wait this long to get a guided tour._

"So, is there anything else of interest?" Johnny asked a few minutes later as he climbed back into the room.

"No," Southpaw said. "Just more of the same."

"What if we leave the rest of the examination until some other time?" Johnny suggested. "You seem to have a lot of windows in the building, and it's gonna take a long time to check them all. Your house seems secure enough. I can't imagine how anyone got in here. I'm gonna check this sensor, and I'll get back to you in a couple of nights to let you know if I found anything."

"Great," Southpaw replied, his mood seeming to brighten with the prospect of the tedious search coming to an end. The Ventrue escorted his Telemon guest to the front door without another word, and Johnny walked quickly into the night. _I can't believe that was so easy,_ he thought, suppressing a chuckle. _Michelle is gonna love this._

**II**

K.T. took the boxes of ammunition from the paper bags in which one of Roi's messengers had delivered them. _Ten boxes of fifty rounds,_ the mercenary noted with approval. Part of him was certain that it was no coincidence that bullets seemed easier to come by as he grew less subtle in his tactics. A small part of the Gangrel still resisted his nightly flaunting of the Masquerade, but the truth was he would never be able to achieve the body count he desired if he played by the rules. The job had ceased to be about defeating the Camarilla quickly enough to get out of town and move on to Philip's next assignment. Now the job was death, pure and simple.

No thoughts ran through K.T. Corben's head as he filled each of his eight speed-loaders with rounds and then went about cleaning the Ruger itself. He had learned days ago to stop thinking, as that invariable led to thoughts of Erica. Thoughts of Erica led to pain, and pain led to confusion. The mercenary was tired of being confused and had been surprised to find that endless violence provided him with an escape from every thought and memory that seemed to make his very soul ache. He dug farther into the bag, finding a Colt 1911 at the bottom, along with three extra clips. The mercenary smiled thinly as he tossed the large handgun across the room, sending it skidding along the floor to a stop against the wall. He appreciated the gift, but it had been decades since he had used the 1911. It was simply no longer as comfortable for him as the revolver was.

He stood and walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, his long hair hanging down over his face as he gazed at the file that lay on the floor. His newest target's name was Paulie Hazen, a Brujah that generally hung out down in the French Quarter with his three childer. _This job could get a little dicey,_ K.T. realized. Not only would he likely be facing four combat-tested Camarilla Brujah, but any job in or near the French Quarter brought with it the danger of encountering the Krewe of Steele. Its name inspired by the New Orleans krewes that organized and held Mardi Gras parades and balls, the Krewe of Steele was the gang of enforcers founded by a Toreador known simply as Steele. Almost a century earlier the Toreador, under the orders of a prince from their own clan, had declared the Quarter off-limits to vampire-induced violence, and Steele and his ruthless coterie had been chosen to enforce the edict. The members of the Krewe of Steele were taken from all around the city, and over time membership had begun to include non-Toreador. The true identities of the members was never known for sure, though, as all of them wore masks to conceal their faces when performing their assigned patrol and enforcement duties. The only thing that was known for sure, in fact, was that after decades of training and combat, no one in his right mind would ever want to run into even a single member of the Krewe of Steele in the shadows and alleyways of the Quarter.

_I can't wait until Roi decides to have me start hunting down and killing members of the Krewe,_ K.T. thought sourly. _When that happens, I guess it'll be safe to assume he's done with me._ He shook his head to focus his thoughts again and continued to look over the file, making certain that he had memorized the faces in each of the four pictures. A light knock at the door broke the mercenary's concentration, and he grabbed his Ruger and raised it slowly, wondering who in the city could have found him.

"Come in," he muttered menacingly, hoping the tone of his voice would scare off any mortals that might interrupt him. In response to his words, the door opened slowly, revealing Erica and a young woman that K.T. did not recognize.

"Hi, K.T.," Erica said sheepishly as she looked over her friend. From her angle she could only see K.T.'s body leaning over the side of the bed. His long, sandy-colored hair obscured any view she would have gotten of his face had he been wearing his accustomed ponytail.

"What do you want?" K.T. asked venomously, his eyes immediately settling upon Erica's newest friend. The girl appeared to be no older than nineteen, and stood about five and a half feet tall. Her curly, obviously bleached blonde hair came down to her shoulders, and her green eyes betrayed her unease. She was fairly thin, and wore blue jeans and a green Tulane sweatshirt. No response came from Erica, so K.T. continued. "Who's your new friend?"

"Are you okay?" Erica asked, her voice clearly containing as much fear as it did concern.

"Like you care," K.T. responded, standing up and whipping his head back, throwing his hair out of his face. "Either tell me what you want or get out," K.T. snarled. "What, you want money?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "Little Ventrue can't find a job?" In the back of his mind a small voice was asking the mercenary why he was acting the way he was. Part of him wanted him to calm down, to try to discuss the problems that he and Erica had. That voice was kept completely bottled up, however, dominated by his more aggressive side, which had finally been released after years of restraint. The Gangrel was once again every bit as much the beast as anyone in his clan ever was.

"I have money," Erica said, her voice almost a whisper. K.T. saw his onetime companion back up a half step, and a thin smile came to his face. He enjoyed scaring her. _She deserves to be scared,_ he decided. _After the way she treated me, she should be happy that all I want to do is frighten her._ "I just wanted to see how you're doing," Erica explained. "I've heard some things."

"Such as?" K.T. asked with amusement. He could only imagine what the stories sounded like by the time they reached Erica's ears.

"I heard you've killed twenty Brujah just this week," Erica said. As she spoke the words, her friend backed up a noticeable step, openly betraying the fear she was feeling.

"It was twenty three," K.T. corrected, "and four Nosferatu, too." The Nosferatu had attacked him from some shadows when he opened fire on a couple of Brujah, and he was forced to kill them in self-defense. He regretted extinguishing them, though, as there had always been something about the sewer rats that he had felt able to connect with. They were outcasts from society, and K.T. often felt the same way. He had been abandoned by almost everyone he had ever known, even Erica. _And now she's back_, he thought wickedly. _I'll make her regret it. I'll hurt her the way she hurt me._

"I guess Roi is earning his money then," Erica said, her feet shifting uneasily.

"Look, this small talk is wonderful Erica, but I haven't killed anyone all night and it's already after ten," the Gangrel spat. "Is there a point to this shit, or should I get comfortable and just pretend to listen and care, just like I always did in the old days, before you decided to pack up and leave?"

"You didn't just pretend," Erica said, looking genuinely hurt. "You cared, K.T., and I'll bet you still do."

"Is that what you came here to hear?" he asked, letting slip an evil chuckle. "If that's what you want, you're in for some serious fucking disappointment. So why don't you and your friend there get running along and play now? It's time for the big boys to go to work."

"She's not just my friend," Erica answered uneasily, her eyes scanning K.T. closely, as if she was searching for any reaction.

_NO!_ K.T. thought, looking over the girl closely. _She wouldn't have done that to me. Not here, not now, not like this. Not already._ His head slumped down against his chest, all the fight suddenly taken out of him. "I see," he said evenly, not even able to look into Erica's eyes. _I can't have her see me like this, anyway,_ he thought, unsure whether any bloody teardrops were forming in his eyes. All he could tell for certain was that he was feeling choked up.

"We met at Cooter Brown's," Erica explained, referring to a popular Uptown bar. "Her boyfriend had just broken up with her, and she seemed so lost. I knew she would be perfect for the embrace."

"That's a wonderful story," K.T. answered absently. "So you're here to tell me it's finally over between us, is that it? You've decided for sure that you're not coming back?"

"I don't know," Erica said noncommittally. "I don't know what I want anymore. Kendra's helping me figure all that out."

"Kendra, huh?" K.T. asked. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, we're done," K.T. growled. "Two's company, Erica, but three's a crowd. I have no room in my life for an apprentice. Never had one, never will."

"What about me?" Erica asked.

"You were never just an apprentice," K.T. said softly, the words escaping his lips before he even realized what he had said. He knew the sentiment had come from deep inside, from the part of his soul that had not known expression since a night long before, outside a diner on Market and 15th in San Diego. He felt grief and loss so unimaginable, so painful, that it was an experience he had been sure would only come once in a lifetime, even if that life lasted for over a hundred years. He had been wrong in his assumption. "I'm a Gangrel," K.T. reminded his companion. "That means by nature I'm a loner. I have no interest in being part of a pack. You and I had something special, but I guess that time is done."

"It doesn't have to be," Erica said, her voice almost pleading. "I think we can make this work. We can make 'us' work."

"Not anymore," K.T. said, still making certain he was not looking up. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out," he suggested coldly.

"What?" Erica asked, her voice shocked.

"Get out," K.T. shot back. "This won't work, Erica. Not anymore." He bent over his file once again and turned the page, looking over another of his future victims, conveying in no uncertain terms that the conversation was finished.

"Fine," Erica mumbled. "Just be careful, K.T. I don't even want to think about you getting yourself killed." His companion walked out without another word, and K.T.'s body began to rack with sobs as soon as she was safely out of earshot.

_She replaced me already,_ he thought, feeling as if the knowledge that he was replaced was perhaps even worse than the feeling of simply being left. _She would have given me a chance, though. She was ready. I think she could have forgiven me, if not for that wench she has tagging along._ His mind raced along, and he tried to come up with a solution to his problem. He knew he would be no good on the streets until he got himself under control, and he could not do that until he resolved his situation. Suddenly, a solution popped into his mind, and he shuddered to think that it had even occurred to him. _It's the only way,_ he decided quickly, before he could think about it enough to realize how bad an idea it was. He took out his phone and dialed a number he knew well. It was answered quickly.

"Johnny?" K.T. asked.

"Did you expect anyone else to answer my phone?" the Telemon replied. "Well, I guess Michelle could have," he added quickly, "but I hate to use her as a secretary. She's always forgetting to write down messages."

"I need a huge favor," K.T. responded, ignoring Johnny's mirth. The mercenary wondered how he could even be going through with this.

"What do you need?" Johnny asked, his tone making it clear that 'Yashida the professional mercenary' had replaced 'Johnny the fun guy.'

"Erica just embraced a childe," K.T. answered, "and I need you to kill her for me."

**III**

Michelle looked at Johnny in silence, wondering who had been on the phone. Yashida had not said a word since he had placed his cell-phone in his pocket, but Michelle knew that something bad was about to go down. The conversation had gone on awhile, but after a friendly greeting most of what Johnny had said was limited to some 'Yeah's,' 'Uh-huh's,' and 'No way's.' She had initially thought that K.T. had been the caller, as Johnny had seemed to be on very familiar terms with whoever was on the other end, but Yashida's mood had darkened very quickly. Michelle had figured out that whoever was calling had asked for a favor that Johnny was either reluctant to do, or thought it was a very bad idea to do. She was still unsure which statement was more accurate.

"Are you ever going to tell me what that was about?" she asked her companion, wondering what was going through Johnny's head as he gazed out the window.

"No," Johnny answered. "It was a personal matter."

"And it doesn't concern me at all?" Michelle asked. The Gangrel found that very hard to believe, as for years the only thing in Johnny's life she had been left out of was professional matters. Anything personal had invariably meant she was welcome to ask any questions.

"I'm sorry," Johnny replied, still noticeably avoiding eye contact. "There's something I have to do."

"No you don't," Michelle said. "I heard the way you were talking. You think this is a bad idea, don't you? Is it dangerous?"

"Maybe," Johnny replied. "Maybe not for me, though." Yashida's enigmatic response only made Michelle more curious, so she decided to dig deeper.

"Then who for?" she asked, moving toward her companion and lightly grasping his arm. "You can talk to me, Johnny. Really."

"I know," Johnny answered, his voice little more than a whisper. "There are just some things I do that I would just as soon not have you know about."

"Like what?" she pried, still searching for the slightest nugget of a hint.

"I do favors for very dangerous people," Yashida replied. "I do these favors in return for information, or return favors, or simply promises of favors in the future."

"And which is it this time?" Michelle asked, hoping she might get a clue. Every question she asked simply led to two more questions rather than a straight answer, and she was rapidly getting frustrated.

"I don't know," Johnny said evenly. "Now leave this alone, Michelle. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Why not?" Michelle asked.

"I've been asked to do a particularly vile thing," Johnny replied. "It's really nothing that I haven't done before, though, it's just that I never did it for this reason."

"You have me totally lost," Michelle admitted.

"Good," Johnny answered. "Then let's leave it at that, okay?" He looked her over, seemingly searching for any sign of acquiescence, but Michelle would not give him the satisfaction of an immediate victory. "Please?" he asked, pressing the issue.

"All right," Michelle relented.

"Then I need you to run interference for me with Brett," Johnny said. "Tell him I went out to dig up some information on a few things."

"What things?" Michelle asked.

"I don't know," Johnny answered. "Make up the lie yourself. It'll probably sound more believable that way."

"I don't know, Johnny," Michelle responded, a thin smile spreading across her lips. "You've heard some of my lies, haven't you? They're usually pretty terrible."

"You're right," Yashida admitted. "Tell him I wanted to dig up more information on this Yoshi guy," Johnny said. "That should make him happy." Yashida took a couple of steps toward the front door, and then turned suddenly on his heels. "I need one more thing," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"What?" Michelle asked.

"Get all our tools together for tonight, and go feed as much as you can before I get back later," Johnny instructed.

"We got a job?"

"Not exactly," Johnny answered. "There's something I wasn't allowed to see earlier tonight, and I want to find out what it was."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Michelle asked.

"I'll give you the details on the way," Yashida replied. "I think you'll have fun with it, though. Just make sure you wear some body armor."

"You're kidding, right?" Michelle asked nervously. She could not remember Johnny ever insisting on wearing body armor during a break-in. He generally preferred full freedom of movement to the added protection of kevlar. As he often pointed out, it was not like anyone with a gun was likely to do any permanent harm to them. The sinking feeling in her stomach simply served to increase her unease at his words.

"No, I'm not kidding," Johnny muttered. "Just get everything together, and remember to talk to Brett for me."

"Sure thing, boss," Michelle replied, turning immediately to walk toward the back room, where Brett and Uiko were trading combat tips. As she walked from the room, Michelle wondered why Johnny suddenly seemed to be less trusting with his secrets. _Is it because he's starting to show just how much less he cares about me? Is he finally going to start making it clear that he prefers Uiko? Has his blood finally overridden his will and forced him to stop running with a Gangrel rather than his own clanmates?_ Questions led to questions, and by the time Michelle came face to face with Brett, she was actually starting to feel sick. All she could do, though, was tell Johnny's lie and hope that everything worked out for the best.

Without even waiting for an answer from Brett, Michelle walked out of the room again and went about gathering together all of the equipment that she figured she and Johnny might need. Into a large black duffel bag she threw a diamond-tipped glasscutter and a suction cup, a wire-cutter, a case with a standard tool set, three fifty-foot long coils of rope, and two sets of lockpicks. Next she grabbed a case with all the electronics they would need to get past computerized security devices. Into a second bag she threw several pistols and some extra ammunition. Finally, she went into the closet and pulled out two sets of black clothes, one for each of them, along with two light bulletproof vests. _That should do it,_ she thought sourly.

With her menial chores completed, the Gangrel began to walk through the building and out to the front porch, where she sat down to watch the deserted street outside. _It never used to be like this,_ she thought wistfully. She remembered all of the adventures and fun times she and Johnny had had so many years ago. Of course, that was all before Johnny's sire, Siras Telemon, had been able to build a power base. Siras was as ambitious as he was paranoid, and almost as capable. In just under ten years he had built a coterie of five vampires into a fledgling bloodline and, some were beginning to say, the newest distinct clan in the world. He had claimed the princedom of his own small town and had expanded his influence outward. The name of the Telemon clan was now known to all those who held positions of influence along the East Coast. Within a few more years, if the grunts continued to survive, Michelle had no doubt that the Telemon would be known throughout the country. The thought made her sick.

She knew she was blood bound to Yashida, but that had never bothered her. When she had first met the Asian vampire, he still claimed to be Brujah, not yet having adopted the name of his sire as his new clan affiliation. He had been energetic and adventurous, and Michelle, not long a vampire, had been deeply smitten. She had fallen in love with a man she felt to be her soulmate. Johnny had taught her how to be a thief, and she had done a great deal to keep him from becoming as dour and militant as his clanmates. As Siras' influence grew, though, so did Johnny's responsibilities. It had slowly broken her heart to watch her lover drift away from her.

For a couple of years now Michelle had tried to find a way to stem the tide of Johnny's changes, to bring him back to the place he had been when the two had first met. Even after all the years of battle, Michelle wanted nothing more than to wander about aimlessly and live as she willed. In her heart, Michelle knew, she should have been an anarch. Indeed, if Siras' initial play for power had failed, she felt confident that she and Johnny would have wandered off to live an anarch's life. That had not happened, though. Instead, she was made to be the companion of a man who had more responsibility than he had ever asked for.

_Perhaps there's some way to break his sire's hold,_ Michelle wondered again, for perhaps the millionth time. In her dreams, as she slept alone, she imagined a place where she and Johnny could live in peace. Sometimes, she dreamt of the two of them being mortal and having a family and kids the way she had always thought her life would be when she imagined it as a child. Then she would wake up and remember that mortality was no longer possible. Immortality had at one time seemed like the coolest thing in the world; now, it almost seemed like a curse. She would once again be able to love being immortal, she knew, if she could spend her years with Johnny. It had been too long since the two of them had even talked, no less gone out for a night on the town. It had just been too long.

_Then, of course, there's Uiko,_ she thought angrily, arriving once again in the same place she always did. It was all about Uiko, and she knew it. Michelle could bitch and moan for all eternity about how she missed the good old days, but in the end she was all too aware that the majority of her problems centered on the fact that Johnny spent so much time with his ninja childe. _If only I could get her out of the way somehow,_ she thought wickedly, her mind running through several scenarios that would allow her to eliminate Uiko's threat to Michelle's monopoly on Johnny's affections. Michelle shook her head, trying to change her focus. She would not – could not – assassinate Johnny's childe. While it would be physically possible for her to do so, at least for a few more years, until Uiko became strong enough to put up a significant fight, Michelle knew what would happen if Johnny ever found out. _If I think it's bad now, just imagine how it would be if Johnny ever discovered I whacked his newest favored childe._ She calmed herself again and imagined any possibility that could bring her peace.

_Well, what if I didn't actually kill her, but just prevented her from being rescued?_ Michelle wondered. It was one thing to actively kill Uiko, but something else entirely to simply withhold assistance when needed. _Fine,_ Michelle decided, _I can't kill the bitch, but I'll be damned if I ever go out of my way to help her out of a jam. One of these days she'll bite off more than she can chew, and when that happens she better not come to me. If she does, all she'll find is a face devoid of sympathy as she gets herself destroyed._

**IV**

Johnny Yashida sped down Tchoupitoulas at over eighty miles an hour, crossing the center line to blow past the few slower-moving vehicles that blocked his way. He knew that he should do the small favor that K.T. had asked. After all, he still owed him for returning Michelle safely. Something about the hit still seemed immoral, though. The young girl that Erica had embraced had done nothing wrong, and as far as Johnny knew, was not actively taking part in any aspect of the siege. He continued on through increasing traffic until he caught sight of Harrah's Casino. He stopped his car on the side of the road and continued the rest of the way on foot. While he would have liked the convenience of having his Mustang sitting right outside the building, he felt having it a block and a half away might make a getaway easier should he need to flee on a moment's notice.

As he walked down the street his cell phone started to vibrate. _Another favor?_ Johnny wondered silently. He wondered what would be asked of him this time. "Yashida," he announced evenly as he answered the phone, not particularly caring who the caller was.

"It's Marcus," came the answer. "Siras has a job for you."

"Great," Johnny replied. "In case he's forgotten, I'm trying to help Brett crush a siege here. I've been a little busy."

"You're about to get busier," Marcus responded. "There was a situation in Boston. It appears the CIA loaned out one of their assassins to the NSA, which had ordered a hit on Maxwell Schreck."

"Who?" Johnny asked. The small Telemon knew the names of most of the main players in the East Coast's main cities, but Maxwell Schreck was not one he recognized.

"Schreck was the blood brother of the Ventrue primogen," Marcus answered. "Apparently, the NSA has a file on the guy, labeling him as an international terrorist. As soon as he set foot on American soil, a termination order was issued. The CIA loaner was the one sent to do the job."

"And all this matters to me how?" Johnny asked, wondering what the point was to the whole conversation.

"Our people were able to intercept her before the mission was completed," Marcus said, "and they embraced her. She's being sent to help you out in your siege."

"Great," Johnny muttered. "And where exactly do this assassin's loyalties lie?" he asked immediately. Johnny remembered another recruit whose embrace had made him uneasy – Angelica Black. She had been an IRA terrorist embraced because of her explosives expertise. It had not been long before problems began to develop, and the clan had eventually been forced to extinguish her. The thought of a CIA assassin in the clan caused the same kind of anxiety in Yashida's gut.

"She was just embraced two nights ago," Marcus replied. "She is to be transferred to you, to be raised as if she was your own childe. She's not military, so you're to blood bond her to yourself, so the woman's loyalties should not be an issue. I know you're concerned about us creating another Angelica, but we won't make any of the same mistakes we made in the past."

"Fine," Johnny replied, dropping the matter. "Who was her sire?"

"Sam Carson," Marcus replied. The choice of a sire made sense to Johnny. Carson had been in U.S. Marine Reconnaissance, and embraced into the Telemon clan by Karl Strausser, an ex-Stassi East German who now handled all matters of Military Intelligence for the Telemon. Strausser and Carson would have drooled over the opportunity to bring in a CIA assassin.

"So what's her name?" Yashida asked, deciding he should at least get the most basic information on the woman before she arrived at his doorstep.

"Melissa Johansson," Marcus answered. "She's a cute little thing." Marcus' comment made Johnny smile thinly. Yashida had always been amazed at how human Marcus had remained, even after well over a decade as a vampire.

"So when exactly is she getting here?" Johnny asked.

"In a little less than an hour," Marcus replied. "She's on the eleven-fifty arrival from Atlanta on Delta."

"Nothing like giving me lots of notice," Johnny grumbled. "I'm sort of in the middle of something here right now, you know."

"I can give you her cell phone number if you'd like," Marcus offered. "Give her a call and have her take a cab."

"No, I'll get her," Johnny replied, trying to suppress the enormous irritation he felt. "You got a physical description for me?"

"I'm emailing you a picture right now," Marcus answered. "Let me know if there are any problems."

"Shouldn't be," Johnny said. "I'd better get going," he added, knowing he would be hard-pressed to get everything done that he had planned. He walked quickly up the steps into the casino and flashed a fake driver's license to the security at the front door. A moment later he was walking through the din created by dozens of lucky and unlucky gamblers, most of them tourists. Yashida ignored them all, walking intently toward the high stakes poker table. He saw his contact immediately, one of two men seated across from the dealer.

"Good evening," Johnny said as pleasantly as he could, still anxious about getting to the airport on time.

"Good evening to you, too, Mr. Yashida," Yoshi answered. "I'm glad you could meet me on such short notice."

"Short notice seems to be about all I ever get anymore," Johnny griped. "I'll have to cut this meeting a little shorter than I would have liked. I just found out about another engagement."

"I understand completely," Yoshi said with a nod. "There has not been much of a chance to take it easy lately."

"What did you want to see me about?" Johnny asked, deciding to get right down to business.

"Perhaps if we could discuss it over a cup of coffee?" Yoshi asked, already gathering his chips off of the table.

"Sure," Johnny answered. He had expected to move before any serious discussion took place. Neither of them was able to discuss much in front of the mortals. The two men rose from the table and started to move across the large floor.

"I am greatly interested in you and your clan," Yoshi commented. "You have brilliantly carved out a comfortable niche for yourselves."

"I would hardly consider what we do 'a comfortable niche,' " Johnny replied with a smile. "Sieges tend to get a little rough."

"I know," Yoshi replied. "I myself have seen quite a few of them. You see, I decided about a hundred years ago that I could make a big name for myself, and also a comfortable amount of money and favors, if I spent my years opposing the Sabbat."

"Really?" Johnny commented. "I always wondered why there weren't people in the established clans that do what the Telemon does. It seems like it would make sense to specialize, especially in today's market."

"Exactly," Yoshi said with a smile. "Being Toreador, I get a little more work than you might expect. It's strange, actually. The elders in Europe look down on the vampires of the New World, feeling them to be decadent children that spend far too much time squabbling. The reality is far from that perception, however. In the Americas, our kind are pushed to become far stronger, far sooner. A kindred that cannot defend himself is quickly extinguished. The neonates of every clan in the New World are superior to those of the Old World in virtually every combat ability. I think the elders have no understanding of the extent of the disparity."

"I don't see any problem with this," Johnny said.

"Neither do I," Yoshi replied. "In Europe they consider us animals because we learn how to fight first, and then eventually get around to finding culture. They feel this is backward. Unfortunately, my clan, the Toreador, hang onto the tendencies of the Europeans more than the others here in the New World."

"Meaning young Ventrue and Tremere are more able to defend themselves, while the more cultured Toreador get cut down more easily by the endless ranks of the Sabbat," Johnny concluded. "So you see your role as being the one to end this."

"In a manner of speaking," Yoshi said. "I have grown tired of the Toreador being looked down upon here in the Americas. In Europe, the Toreador are as respected as any other clan. This is because being civilized is the main pastime of all the clans, and being civilized gives us inroads into mortal society, thus allowing a great deal of wealth and security. No European Ventrue or Tremere are more capable in battle any sooner than our own Toreador are. None of the elders seem to understand the need to do things differently here."

"But you do," Yashida surmised. "So you're here to train Toreador?"

"No, it's too late for that," Yoshi admitted. "It would take years for me to train a large number of my clanmates. No, I would do best to lead by example. It is my hope that others of my clan will see what I do, and become inspired. I wish for Toreador in the Americas to learn that the phrase 'martial arts' means exactly what it says – that war can be an art. It will take time, however, for my fellow Toreador to understand this. That's where you come in."

"Me?" Johnny asked dubiously.

"Your entire clan, actually," Yoshi responded with a thin smile. "My clanmates refer to the Telemon as 'grunts,' and the term seems to fit. You are uncultured and crude, but so were the Visigoths, from what I am told, and they succeeded in bringing the hammer down on the Roman Empire. Battle has its place, Mr. Yashida, and so does the Telemon clan. I would like to offer my support to your efforts."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Johnny asked skeptically. Yashida had been a kindred long enough to know that no elder ever said exactly what was on his mind, and that no ally ever came without a price.

"I would like to share with you my expertise," Yoshi answered.

"Exactly what expertise is that?" Yashida asked. "You just admitted that the Toreador are not seen as the toughest clan over here in the States. What exactly are you bargaining with?"

"My full name is Hideyoshi," the old Japanese man replied. "Does that name ring a bell with you?"

"Toyotomi Hideyoshi?" Johnny asked skeptically, doing his best to prevent his jaw from dropping all the way to the floor. The Toreador only nodded slightly. Yashida could hardly believe his ears. Like all Telemon, Johnny had studied military history, but unlike his clanmates, he had focused on non-Western cultures. Hideyoshi was one of the three great unifiers of Japan, and was widely considered one of the greatest generals Japanese civilization had ever produced. His prowess on the battlefield had been one of the primary elements that had led to the end of the Warring States period and the creation of the Tokugawa Shogunate. In fact, Hideyoshi had been, in fact, if not in name, a shogun. It was only his lack of Minamoto blood that prevented an official declaration of the title. "How were you embraced Toreador?" Johnny asked. He had heard about Asian vampires, and knew them to be something radically different from their Western brethren. The Telemon could hardly imagine how a medieval Japanese warlord had been embraced into a western vampire clan.

"There was a Portuguese Jesuit that spent a great deal of time in my court," Hideyoshi replied. "His brother, who happened to be an arms dealer, had accompanied him. The brother was, in reality, a Toreador that had come along with the Westerners to catch a glimpse of the culture of the time. My leadership brought not only great military victories, but also a burst of artistic achievement. It was as a patron of the arts that I was embraced, and as a soldier that I now come to you."

"What kind of expertise do you want to share?" Johnny asked.

"All I have," Yoshi answered. "Anything you want to know, I will teach. That includes not only my military knowledge, but also the teaching of any vampire disciplines that you do not yet know. I will make you better able to understand and control your own vampiric bodies."

"And what do you want in return?" Johnny asked, unwilling to even guess at the cost of such assistance.

"I want two things," Hideyoshi replied, his amused expression revealing his apparent knowledge of Johnny's anxiety. "First, I want you, in turn, to teach me all that you know. That includes your rumored mastery of the Lasombra art known as Obtenebration."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Johnny answered immediately. Various clans developed abilities using their vampire blood, and many of these abilities were closely guarded secrets. Obtenebration, the art of controlling shadows for various purposes, was a fearsome thing in the minds of many kindred. Yashida had a very good idea of what would happen if word had started to spread that he had gotten a hold of the most closely guarded secret of the Sabbat's leading clan. The Lasombra would hunt him down to prevent their secrets from being shared any further, and most everyone else would hunt him to gain a bit of the forbidden knowledge that he had acquired.

"I have done a lot of research into your clan, Mr. Yashida, and I am rather certain you possess the knowledge I seek," Yoshi returned. "I understand your position, but you have nothing to fear from me. I am willing to give you other secret knowledge in trade."

"There's nothing I would like more," Johnny answered, "but I can't give you what I don't have. I've heard other people accuse me of possessing Obtenebration, but that doesn't make it any more true than having just one person say it."

"Of course," Yoshi said, his tone making it obvious that he was willing to entertain Johnny's charade. "In time, perhaps you will trust me. I can't blame you for your position. However, there was a second favor that I also want."

"And that is?" Johnny asked.

"Vengeance," Yoshi answered. "I want you and your clan to help me kill a Cardinal."

"Oh, is that all?" Johnny asked sarcastically, not knowing whether or not he should be amused. "Let me guess, you want to have us help you kill Polonia." As the Sabbat Cardinal of the East Coast, Palonia was one of the most powerful and influential kindred in the world. He had countless bodyguards and was, in addition, an extremely fearsome foe in his own right. The Camarilla had attempted to kill Polonia several times, but had never even come close. Yashida could not imagine how one single Toreador thought he could pull off such a feat, especially not if the only assistance he had was from what was, essentially, an overly organized gang of anarchs.

"That is all," Yoshi replied evenly, "just Polonia." Only then did Johnny realize that Yoshi was completely serious.

"That's not possible," Johnny said. "I would love to learn even a fraction of what you know, but I can't even consider this offer."

"I was under the impression you had superiors," Yoshi answered. "Perhaps they should be the ones to decide an issue like this."

"Polonia is untouchable," Johnny answered. "What you're asking is for my clan to commit mass suicide, and my superiors will realize that. They won't consider your offer any more than I will. Look," Johnny continued, "I really look forward to working with you against this siege, but our business will have to conclude once our job here is done." Johnny turned and began to walk toward the exit, already doubting he would get to the airport in time to meet his clanmate.

"You think it's that easy?" Yoshi asked. "I thought you had a brain, Mr. Yashida."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Johnny asked as he whirled to face the old Toreador once again.

"Polonia is the Cardinal of the Eastern United States," Yoshi pointed out needlessly. "Your clan appears to have set up shop in his backyard. Don't you realize he will only suffer so much interference before he finally decides to eradicate you? I'm offering you assistance in preparing for the inevitable. I know you are not ready to undertake such a task now, or perhaps even twenty years from now. Eventually, though, if you live long enough, you will have to kill him. This will happen whether I am with you or not. I am simply asking that you allow me to join you when the time comes, so that I can rip out his heart with my own hands."

"I'll ask my superiors," Johnny relented, knowing the truth of Yoshi's words. Yashida had already realized the accuracy of what the old Toreador was saying. The Telemon clan was young and growing, but was still incredibly vulnerable. They would continue to be the pawns of the elders and take heavy losses until they were strong enough to undertake tasks that would announce to the rest of the kindred world that the Telemon were there to stay. Every clan that existed had accomplished that one goal that set them apart. Most recently, hundreds of years earlier, the Tremere had gone to war with the ancient Clan Tzimisce. No one had given them a chance in the world, but the Tremere held on, slowly gathering their strength and culturing generation after generation of capable recruits. Eventually the Tremere had struck against the heart of the Tzimisce, thus announcing to the world that their clan had finally grown up and was no longer a group to be dismissed or toyed with. Eventually the Telemon would have to undertake a like task, and strike at the heart of their own unbeatable foe. That, most likely, would be Polonia, and their survival as a clan would ultimately depend solely on their success in that one assault.

Johnny Yashida felt a chill creep up his spine as he turned and walked away again. Every time he thought about the inevitable battle his clan would face, he grew afraid. What if they lost? What would become of the few survivors? Yashida could not even imagine. Even more frightening was the prospect of victory. What would the clan do when they had finally carved out a permanent position in the kindred world? That might even pose a greater challenge than simply defeating an unbeatable foe on the battlefield.

-------------------------------------------------

Johnny looked over every person walking down the escalator toward him. As it was after all departure times, the glass doors had been closed to the airport gates and jetways, so he was forced to wait downstairs by the baggage claim. Two-dozen people came into view before he spotted the couple for which he was waiting. The man had every bit the military demeanor that Johnny expected in a ghoul of the Telemon clan. The woman, on the other hand, appeared to be everything Johnny expected from someone sent to train with him. She was average height, a shade over five and a half feet tall, and could not have weighed any more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Her sandy blonde hair was cut short in the back but left much longer on top, allowing a wave of hair to fall over the right side of her face. Only her left eye was visible, but it was bluer than any eye Johnny had ever seen, seeming almost as if she was wearing colored contact lenses.

"You must be Sergeant Bill Maxwell," Johnny said, walking up to the pair and introducing himself to the ghoul.

"Yes sir," the large man replied. "She's all yours. In the name of her sire, Lt. Sam Carson, I formally transfer the privileges and responsibilities of the sire to you. That includes, of course, the right of destruction should she prove not to be a suitable candidate." Johnny caught the sideways glance that Maxwell directed at the young kindred, and knew there was a slight level of jealousy. Due to the surrounding circumstances, the woman had been embraced immediately, without any probationary period as a ghoul. Johnny would have to keep a very close eye on her. "Lieutenant Carson wishes you the best of luck with your newest trainee, and requests that she be transferred back to him at the end of training if you feel her skills are more suited to him than to you," the ghoul added.

"I accept the responsibility of this childe, and will most certainly keep her true lineage in mind when deciding how to have her assigned," Johnny assured the ghoul. "I'll also call the lieutenant and let him know what a fine job you've done." Yashida was well aware that the goal of the clan was to ghoul a possible recruit for a year before embracing the individual, although that goal was more a dream than anything else. They spent far too much time at war to keep every ghoul for a year before the embrace. The time spent as a ghoul was used to evaluate the candidate. Exceptional service or an aptitude for the work cut into the probationary period greatly, and Johnny wondered whether Maxwell would get embraced upon his return to Boston.

"Thank you, sir," Maxwell said. "I'd better be leaving now."

"Fine," Yashida responded. He watched the ghoul walk off, leaving him alone with his newest charge.

"Ms. Johansson?" he asked formally, finally turning his attention to the young woman.

"That's right, but you can call me Mel," she said in a pleasant tone. "Who are you?" she asked, her one visible eye scanning over Johnny's body, presumably searching him for weapons.

"I'm Johnny Yashida," the older Telemon answered. "I thought you would at least have been briefed on what your sire planned to do with you."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Melissa answered, "I was. I just expected you to be taller."

"What?" Johnny asked, unable to hide his amusement.

"I've heard a lot about you," Melissa answered, "and I sorta built up a mental image of what you'd look like. In my mind you were taller."

"Sorry if you're disappointed," Johnny said with a grin.

"Oh, I think I'll live," Melissa replied with an amused smile. "So what do we do now?"

"I was thinking we'd get your luggage and then get going," Johnny said. "I've heard a lot about you and built up a mental image of how I expected you to be," he added. "In my mind you'd been to an airport before and knew how things worked."

"Touché," she shot back without missing a beat. "Unfortunately, I didn't bring any more luggage than what I could fit in my carry on," she said, gesturing to the brown leather bag slung over her shoulder. "I wasn't supposed to be in Boston for more than two days, and there was no expectation of going anywhere near New Orleans."

"Funny how things can change," Johnny joked, walking back in the direction of the escalator. "We'll go up a couple of levels and then over to the parking garage," he explained. "Once we're back at the haven you can chill out for the rest of the night as far as I'm concerned. Then you can either go out shopping with Michelle first thing tomorrow night, or I could just as easily send my ghoul out for some things during the day."

"I'd just as soon shop for my own clothes, thank you," Melissa answered.

"I figured you would," Johnny replied. "I'll need Michelle back at a reasonable hour, so the two of you can't stay out long."

"You'll only need _her_ back?" Melissa asked. "I was under the impression you needed some help down here. I figured that would include me."

"We could always use a hand," Johnny admitted, "but not from you. You're too young and too inexperienced."

"Too young?" Melissa asked. "I'm twenty five years old. How old are you?"

"Almost fifty," Johnny said, enjoying the look of surprise he got from his clanmate. "And to be honest," he added, "I doubt your loyalties."

"What?" Melissa asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

Johnny grimaced when he heard her response and figured that she had not been told everything. "Do you know what a blood bond is?" he asked, unconsciously quickening his pace. For one of the first times since he had gotten to New Orleans Yashida felt as if he was finally not being watched. That made him uneasy.

"I've never heard of a blood bond," Melissa admitted. "What is it?"

"The blood bond is the closest thing to love our kind can get, though it's far more than, really," Johnny explained. "More than affection, more than loyalty, the result of the blood bond is similar to seeing someone who's totally love's bitch. You're to be blood bonded to me."

"What?" Melissa asked, seeming struck by her clanmate's bluntness and predictably pissed off about her situation. "Like I'm supposed to be your slave or something?"

"No," Johnny said, "though there are those of our kind that use the bond for that purpose. There was another member of our clan with a rather independent background, and problems developed. She had to be destroyed." Part of Johnny could hardly believe that he was telling the woman so much. She just seemed to be incredibly trustworthy. He could see how that trait, coupled with her incredible attractiveness, would have made her an exceptional assassin. "You're not supposed to know about that, though," he added absently, "so don't tell anyone I told you. The failed recruit lacked loyalty to the clan, due primarily, so the theory goes, to her lack of a military background." Yashida was shocked that she had not been warned about the blood bond before the embrace. All childer of the Telemon were supposed to enlist into the clan willingly, knowing the terms of their service. Melissa should have known what fate awaited her.

"So this is being done to me because I wasn't a jarhead?" Melissa asked.

"Actually, yes," Johnny answered. "And that's not the only thing being done differently with you. Usually the sire will raise his own childe, but with you the tradition had to be changed. We couldn't keep you in Boston, where other government agents might have happened upon you, so you were sent here to train with me. The clan's leaders felt the instruction I would give you will be most in line with what Carson would have taught you."

"Really?" Melissa asked.

"That's what they think," Johnny said. "I don't know yet if it'll actually happen that way." He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. He was impressed by the childe's poise and wit, and he wanted to keep a close eye on her. Yashida suspected that she might do well in his own role of clan diplomat if given the time to mature. He knew that Carson would likely be slightly miffed at not having his childe back when she was finally released, but giving her a high profile position like clan representative would do a lot to raise Carson's prestige within the clan. In the long run, Carson would probably feel grateful to Yashida, and Johnny liked the idea of ingratiating himself with someone in the clan's Military Intelligence division.

"So what do I have to learn?" Melissa asked. "I already know how to be an assassin. You really think there's anything you can teach me?"

Initially, Johnny only smiled as he walked into the parking garage. He looked around briefly, not expecting to see anyone. "So you think you have what it takes?" he asked, finally turning to face his newest protégé.

"What do you mean?" Melissa asked warily.

"I mean only what I asked," Yashida replied. "I assume you've had martial arts training."

"I got my first black belt when I was eleven," Melissa replied smugly.

"Your first one?" Johnny asked. "Just how many do you have now?"

"Three," she answered with a sly grin. "So you ready to believe that I can hold my own?"

"Nope," Yashida answered simply. "You want to see why?"

"Let's see what you got." Melissa fell back into a fighting stance, her gaze measuring her opponent with an expert's eye. For his part, Yashida simply stood with his hands behind his back, presenting as unimposing a figure as he could muster.

"Take me out," he ordered. The Telemon glanced around the cavernous garage, making certain once again that no one was around. At this late hour, however, he knew witnesses would be few and far between. The New Orleans airport was next to abandoned after eleven. When he saw Melissa's hesitation, he repeated his order in a firmer tone. "Do it, Melissa! Take me out!" Melissa feinted with her left hand and then followed with a vicious blow to Johnny's jaw. The Telemon absorbed the full force of the impact without so much as a grunt, and then shot out a combination of strikes with blinding speed. Before she could even think enough to react, Melissa was lying on the floor of the garage. She looked up at Yashida with a bloody, pain-soaked face, and then glanced over at her right shoulder, which she was only starting to realize had been dislocated.

Without a word Melissa rolled up on the ground and began to whimper, still seeming to have enough pride to restrain herself from crying out in agony.

"That was actually very good," Yashida commented, looking over the childe. "I had no idea when you were going to throw that punch; you did an excellent job of hiding your intentions. As you've probably already figured out, though, your skills as a mortal mean little now that you're kindred." He looked the woman over, and his heart softened immediately. Johnny had no desire to actually hurt Melissa, but he knew she had to be taken down several notches before she did something foolish that got herself, and maybe others, killed. "Did Carson show you how to heal wounds yet?" he asked.

"What?"

"I'll take that as a 'no.' All you have to do is concentrate on mending the flesh around your injuries," he instructed. "Of course, first we'll have to pop that shoulder back in place." Melissa looked up at him in fear of the pain she knew she would face. "The sooner the better," Johnny said with a cavalier shrug. Without another word he placed his right foot on Melissa's back and grabbed her right arm in his hand. In one quick motion he pulled as hard as he could, and the childe screamed out in response. Yashida smiled, though, knowing from experience that the pain in her shoulder would begin to disappear quickly now that the arm was back in its socket. "Can you walk?" Yashida asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Melissa answered.

"Then let's get out of here," Johnny replied. "While we're going I'll explain how to heal yourself, and then I'll give you some blood to help satisfy any appetite you might have."

"Thanks," Melissa muttered, though her eyes betrayed the fact that she was far more anxious than thankful.

-------------------------------------------------

Johnny walked quickly through the front door of the haven, motioning for Melissa to sit down in a chair in the corner. In a heartbeat, Michelle and Uiko both walked into the room. "Who's she?" they both asked in unison, each one immediately glancing toward the other, both of them plainly uncomfortable with saying the same thing at the same time.

"Oh, her... that's Mel," Johnny said absently. "She's my new childe."

"What?!" both women asked, again in unison. This time, the awkward glance was replaced by a noticeable shifting of their feet away from each other.

"Well, legally speaking she's my childe," Yashida explained. "She was actually embraced in Boston. Then our people transferred her here to be trained by me."

"You're already training Uiko," Michelle said, eyeing up the attractive newcomer jealously. "I doubt you'll have time to take on another burden."

"I doubt I'll be a burden, honey," Melissa said caustically. "And anyway, who the hell are you?"

"This is my associate, Michelle Marlowe," Johnny said, introducing the two.

"Associate?" Michelle asked angrily. "Are you kidding me?"

"Michelle, this is Melissa Johansson," Yashida continued, ignoring Michelle's question and turning toward his Japanese childe. "And Melissa, this is Uiko Haraya," Johnny said. "Now that introductions have been made, can someone tell me where Brett is?"

"He went out," Michelle said.

"To meet with the local Nosferatu," Uiko added.

"Perfect," Johnny replied. "Michelle, is everything ready to go?"

"Yes," the Gangrel replied evenly.

"Then let's get going," Johnny said. "Uiko, I want you to watch over Melissa. She is not to leave the building under any circumstances."

"What is this, a prison?" Melissa asked.

"If she leaves, destroy her," Yashida said, his voice containing a slightly vicious edge.

"I understand," Uiko responded.

"You can't do that," Melissa complained.

"Actually, he can," Michelle put in. "You might as well accept it."

"Hey, why don't you bite me?" Melissa replied.

"Don't push it, girlie," Michelle shot back.

"I don't need this shit," Johnny muttered. He suddenly felt as if he had walked into an episode of Tenchi Muyo and got stuck playing the title role. "The next one of you that talks is going to get shot. Understand?" Each of the women nodded, but made no verbal reply. "Good. Now Michelle, you're coming with me. Uiko, watch over Melissa. When Brett comes in, tell him I had something important to look into, and that I needed Michelle's particular abilities to help me. Understood?"

"Yes, sire," Uiko replied with a nod.

Without saying another word, Johnny walked to the front door, only waiting a couple of moments for Michelle to grab two large bags from the closet and then walk out behind him. Once they were outside, the Gangrel immediately began to start in on her companion.

"I'm your _associate_?" she asked angrily. "Since when am I only an associate?"

"I've got a huge fuckin' headache, Michelle," Johnny answered. "Can we please not get into this right now?"

"We're not goin' anywhere until this conversation is over with," Michelle answered. "What the fuck is up with you?"

"I don't feel the need to explain my relationship with my clan to you," Johnny replied, finally deciding that he had no choice but to concede to Michelle's demand. He got into his Mustang, and Michelle joined him after throwing the bags into the back seat.

"Maybe you should explain it to them," Michelle replied. "I'm sick of being referred to as your whore."

"Who said that?" Johnny asked curiously, making a Herculean effort to hide his anger. He peeled out from the side of the curb and down the road, rocking the car back and forth as it seemed to hit every one of the countless potholes that were all too common on New Orleans side streets.

"Brett said it," Michelle answered. "On the way in from the airport, right before he made a pass at me."

"He made a pass at you?" Johnny asked, this time failing miserably at concealing his mounting rage.

"Sure did," Michelle answered. "What, you're actually saying you give a shit?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Johnny asked.

"You know exactly what I mean," Michelle replied, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that Johnny's anger was causing him to race down St. Charles Avenue at seventy miles an hour.

"Why don't you explain it to me?" Yashida growled.

"It all started with Uiko," Michelle answered. "Not only do you spend all kinds of time training with her, you're also sharing blood with her now, too."

"I'm supposed to blood bond her," Johnny explained simply.

"You did that over a year ago," Michelle spat, "yet you still share blood. And don't give me any crap about having to maintain the bond. You could have her feed off of you once a month and still be doing far more than is needed to keep it going properly. And there's no reason in hell you should be feeding from her."

"So that's what's bothering you?" Johnny asked. "I'm blood bound to you, Michelle. You don't have anything to worry about."

"You're spending more time with Uiko than you do with me, and lately you've been sharing blood with her more than you do with me," Michelle answered. "Then you pick yourself up this new blonde piece of ass from Boston, or wherever she's from, and you start referring to me as your _associate_. You seriously expect me to believe there's nothing to be concerned about?"

"First of all, I'm _not_sharing blood with Uiko more than I am with you. You're totally imagining that. Secondly, I am so not in the mood for this," Johnny replied, his right hand massaging his temples as his left hand cut the wheel sharply to avoid a pedestrian as he blew through a red light. "So you're telling me you've been having all kinds of problems all along, but you're only getting around to complaining about it now because I have a new childe to raise?"

"It means you'll be spending even less time with me," Michelle muttered.

"I have my duties," Johnny replied simply.

"You didn't use to," Michelle answered. "You used to be so much more fun. We used to go break into places together, or steal police cars, and even get into anarch rumbles. Now what do we do? We go to cities that are besieged by the Sabbat and spend our time either getting shot at or training to increase our chances of surviving next time we get shot at. It's not very fun."

"No one said you have to follow me into sieges," Johnny replied. He realized too late that that was about the worst thing he could have said.

"If you don't fucking want me around, at least have the balls to say so," Michelle screamed, startling Johnny and almost causing him to sideswipe a parked car.

"That's not what I meant," Yashida said calmly, trying to explain. "I just don't want you to feel that you have to come into these situations. I don't want you to think that I'm making you do this."

"You don't get it," Michelle ranted. "I want to be with you. If that means walking into a Sabbat siege, then so be it. This has nothing to do with the siege, it has to do with _us_."

"I don't get it," Johnny admitted. "You were just complaining about spending time in cities that are under siege instead of doing the stuff we used to do. Now you're telling me this has nothing to do with the siege. What the hell are you trying to say?"

"Why don't you get your head out of your ass and listen to me for once?" Michelle asked. "I want to spend time with you. I don't care what it is we do, I just want some time. That means less time ignoring me to train with Uiko or Mel, or blowing shit up with your jarhead clanmates. I'm sick and tired of feeling like second fiddle to that Japanese slut of yours. I don't like you sharing blood with her like you do, and I _really_ don't like you sharing a bed with her."

"Now you have a problem with sharing a bed?" Johnny asked incredulously. "It's not like we're having sex or anything. She just doesn't like to sleep alone."

"Neither do I," Michelle answered. "You used to share your bed with me."

"She's still adjusting to what she is," Johnny said.

"She's had over a year," Michelle retorted angrily. "That's long enough."

"Why don't you take this up with her?" Johnny suggested, finally deciding that this kind of topic was likely to end up in him getting hit. He vastly preferred the thought of Michelle and Uiko in a catfight to him getting his head cracked open by saying something else that was stupid.

"I already brought this up with her," Michelle admitted.

"So what's the problem?"

"She said she had no problem with me in the bed, too," Michelle said. "That's sorta sick."

"We're all dead," Johnny pointed out. "It's not like it would be some freaky-ass orgy or something. It's just sleeping. It might even be safer if we all slept in the same room."

"She sleeps naked," Michelle pointed out.

"So do you," Johnny answered, "so what of it?"

"I'm not sleeping with another naked woman," Michelle complained.

"It doesn't seem Uiko has a problem with it," Yashida replied.

"Or you, either, for that matter," Michelle said. "I think she was bi when she was alive. And you... I bet you'd get a kick out of sleeping with two naked women."

"If it were over twenty years ago, and I was still very much alive, I think I'd get far more than just a kick out of it," Johnny said with a sly grin. He licked his lips slightly and added a faux shudder of pleasure for dramatic effect, wondering how that would make Michelle react. He figured it would either lighten the mood immediately, or get him shot in the head. To his relief, Michelle only punched him lightly in the shoulder rather than draw her Glock.

"You're a sicko," she murmured.

"I'm sorry I've been making you jealous," Johnny said, his voice suddenly full of compassion, guilt, and affection. "I guess I _have_ been neglecting you a bit, taking you for granted. That'll change, starting tonight."

"Okay," Michelle replied, a thin smile coming to her face. "And what about the sharing blood?"

"I'll stop doing it so much with Uiko," Johnny answered, giving Michelle only a partial victory on that issue. "And I'll do it more with you. Lots more, if you want."

"I want," Michelle said with a smile. "And what about sleeping arrangements?"

"You're welcome to join us," Johnny said, not backing down on that at all. Something always made him feel safer knowing a light-sleeping ninja assassin was laying next to him. He wanted to keep Uiko close as much as possible.

"I think I will," Michelle said. "But don't you go getting too excited over it."

"Don't worry about that," Yashida muttered. He turned the Mustang onto a side street in the Garden District and started to look for a parking spot. He found one and brought the car to a halt, and then turned to look at his companion. "I was just wondering something, though."

"What's that?" Michelle asked warily.

"You ever have one of those times you wish you weren't dead?" The Gangrel's only response was to punch her lover in the shoulder again, and then get out of the car. "It's one block over," Johnny explained as he grabbed one of the bags from out of the back. "You sure you up to this?"

"No," Michelle admitted. "But this'll be one to brag about for years. Might as well get it over with."

**V**

"I need some advice, my old friend," Philip said as he entered the dimly lit room. Hassan looked up from his chessboard, where ivory European kings and knights were facing ebony Saracen sultans and warriors.

"So do I, when you get a chance," the Arab replied, gesturing to the board. "It's white's turn."

"Interesting," Philip commented, looking over the board with an expert eye. While the Gangrel enjoyed chess a great deal, he had never come to enjoy playing against himself, as Hassan often did. The experience seemed at once too difficult and too simple. "However, it is my life-size chessboard that I need help with."

"What is your latest problem with Mr. Corben?" Hassan asked wearily. The Assamite could not imagine what was bothering Philip this time. K.T. had apparently degenerated into a perfect, remorseless killing machine that struck terror in the hearts of the locals.

"He may be sliding too much toward the Beast," Philip said dramatically, referring to the dark side of vampire nature against which all Cainites eternally struggled. Once the battle against the Beast was lost, the vampire would spend the rest of his days and nights as little more than an animal. All that remained of his humanity would have been wiped out. "He was a terrible sight to behold tonight."

"It is you that created this situation," Hassan responded. "He was coming along quite nicely. He had become violent and unfeeling. As a bonus, he seemed to stop over-thinking his role in life. I would think that would please you enough."

"I wanted more."

"You're a fool," Hassan replied. "You had as much as you could get from Mr. Corben. You did not also need to meddle with the Blackwell girl."

"It seemed a solid course of action," Philip retorted, his brow furrowing in thought. "I thought it was a stroke of genius to arrange to have Erica bump into Kendra, and then dominate her into embracing the young mortal. I figured it would drive the final wedge between K.T. and his companion."

"You seem to have underestimated the strength of their bond," Hassan said simply. "You forget what truly occurred in New York."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Philip asked, his tone hinting at both curiosity and anger.

"Mr. Corben was quite taken with Ms. Blackwell, even before the bond," Hassan reminded his associate. "He entered the blood bond willingly, as a means of strengthening a relationship with someone for whom he already cared a great deal. A blood bond is the strongest tie between two of our kind, but not all blood bonds are created equal. Trust an Assamite to know the power of the blood."

"You actually believe this bond is stronger because he entered it willingly?" Philip asked, hiding his amusement. "It almost sounds as if there's a romantic streak within you somewhere."

"You had best hold your tongue, lest I take out my knife and hold it for you," Hassan growled. "I cannot believe that in all these centuries, you have never given serious contemplation to the blood bond. Many of our kind compare it to falling in love. When the mortals fall in love, the relationship can then go well or poorly. If it goes well, then there are other factors built into the relationship that strengthen the bond between the individuals. If things go poorly, then the emotions that bind are all there is." The Assamite looked over his associate, and saw that Philip did not understand at all.

"Let me put it this way," Hassan said, trying to use another approach. "Imagine two pairs of Cainites, one the normal regent-thrall relationship, and the other blood bound to each other. Let's say the regent abuses his thrall and makes a slave of him. The two that are blood bound to each other treat each other with respect and caring, and share a deep friendship as well as the blood bond. Now imagine that both bonds are suddenly broken. The thrall from the first pair would likely be grateful and would not concern himself with going near his master again. Either one from the second pair, however, would likely seek out the other. They would probably join together again, of their own free will, because there was more between them than just the blood bond. Unfortunately for you, K.T. and Erica belonged to the second kind of bond. You may have driven a wedge between them that will eventually break their connection, but they will always yearn for each other's company, whether or not the blood has a hand in the longing."

"I think I see you point," Philip admitted.

"If you had left well enough alone, as I had advised, you would have allowed K.T. to hold out hope that he and Erica could reconcile," Hassan continued. "Now, he appears to have no such belief. He is like a ship adrift in the ocean, with no sails or oars to guide him. He will devolve further and further, because he no longer has anyone to anchor him. The one and only thing he can grasp onto is the job that you gave him. He will kill until he wipes out every Camarilla vampire in the city, or until they kill him first."

"I think that may be a little melodramatic," Philip responded.

"I don't think so," Hassan replied. "You have probably destroyed what could have otherwise been an effective recruit."

"A hint of praise along with your prophecy of gloom?" Philip asked with a wicked smile.

"Mr. Corben was finally hinting at being a man worthy of honor and the skills he had developed," Hassan replied. "I should have expected you to tamper with that potential."

"There's little room for honor in the Black Hand," Philip commented. "Perhaps the time has come for K.T. to be withdrawn from this situation and taken away for some further training. We can give him time to overcome his bond to Ms. Blackwell. If he succeeds, then he may continue in our service. If not, we can always find someone else."

"So you'll simply abandon your little test in order to give him time to recover?" Hassan asked, his voice holding a slight, and surprising, hint of disappointment.

"Not on your life," Philip growled. "K.T. Corben was brought here to kill Johnny Yashida. That is his one and only true test within this city. You and I will work to bring about that confrontation, and then, once Yashida and his clanmates are dead, we will remove K.T."

"You're wicked," Hassan replied.

"I'm efficient," Philip countered. "Call it what you like, though. I get results. This time, I'll get results from K.T."

**VI**

"So how exactly are you planning on getting in there?" Michelle asked, looking over Ash's home with an expert eye. It did not take her long to conclude that the building seemed impenetrable.

"I already took care of all that," Johnny said with a smirk. "Southpaw showed me around earlier, so I fixed things to be able to get in more easily."

"You're kidding," Michelle said with a grin.

"I never kid about business," Yashida answered. "We're going in through Ash's old room."

"Wouldn't that be the most secure room in the building?" the Gangrel asked dubiously.

"Usually," Johnny confirmed. "But I detached one of the motion sensors outside the window, and cut the power supply to a second."

"No way," Michelle said, unable to hide her approval.

"Way," Johnny shot back. "I asked Southpaw for a knife to cut the wire to one of the motion sensors, and while he was busy digging it out, I used my own knife to cut the wires to a second one. He never suspected, especially since he kept his eyes on me the entire time I was using the knife he gave me."

"You're a clever one," Michelle said, deciding to stroke her mentor's ego.

"I also made sure the manual lock wasn't done right when I left," Johnny said

"Let's just hope no one thinks to check," the Gangrel muttered. "And let's also pray no one has moved in. It would suck to sneak into a room full of guards."

"No one goes in there anymore," Johnny said. "It's definitely the best way into the building. The only trick is going to be getting from the third floor all the way down into the basement."

"I guess so," Michelle agreed. "Any plans on how we're gonna do that?"

"I think I have the guards' sentry patterns worked out," Johnny answered.

"You _think_ you have them worked out?" Michelle asked, her unease plain in her voice. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Trust me," the Telemon said with a wink.

As Johnny had promised, getting inside the building was far easier than it should have been. The Telemon simply floated up to the window, opened it, and lowered a rope to his companion. The only hitch almost came when a guard walked around the corner of the building several seconds before Johnny expected him. It was a close call, but the two thieves avoided detection and began to gather themselves inside Ash's old room.

"We're not going to get that close to getting caught again, are we?" Michelle asked, her voice no more than a whisper. The only assurance she received was an almost imperceptible nod, and her stomach involuntarily sank in response. _I can't believe I'm doing this,_ the Gangrel thought over and over in her head.

Johnny gestured for her to listen at the door, and Michelle did so. Both vampires had spent time developing the heightened senses of their undead bodies, but the Gangrel had excelled in this endeavor while Johnny still lagged significantly far behind. Johnny's sense of hearing was good enough to hear the plungers in a combination lock, but he knew better than to trust his ears to pick out, through a heavy oak door, the sound of guards trying to move silently over thick carpeting. Michelle held her head against the wood for several minutes, focusing every bit of concentration on her sense of hearing. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she heard the faint rustling of pant legs outside. She gestured to Johnny, allowing him to know the sentry had just passed, and within a matter of seconds the two intruders were out in the hall.

Johnny and Michelle moved slowly, but deliberately, through the building. The Telemon had taken note of every single security system in the building earlier on, and now he guided his companion expertly through the blind spots in the motion detectors and cameras, around pressure sensors almost completely hidden beneath the carpet, and past a half-dozen guards that came by only a matter of seconds too late to catch the uninvited visitors.

It took longer than Michelle would have liked to finally reach the library on the second floor. The one thing both thieves hoped was that the one and only hidden door Johnny had found earlier would in fact be the one they needed. Earlier in the night, Southpaw had been emphatic of his denial of complete access to the building. Johnny had dropped the subject, but had searched, throughout his entire tour, for what he believed would have to be a hidden door. Only on the second floor did he find one. Initially, it had seemed unlikely to him that a door on the second floor would lead to the basement. Then it had occurred to him that the second floor would be the ideal place to hide it. Anyone who had heard about the secret second basement, and who went looking for it, would no doubt spend his time and energy searching the first floor. Anyone who knew where the door was, and attacked the building in force, would have to fight his way through the guards outside and on the first level, and then up to the second, just so they could go back down to the basement.

The two vampires walked into the room noiselessly, and Michelle shot a questioning glance toward her companion, wondering exactly where she could find the door that Johnny had told her about just before they entered the home. Johnny gestured toward a corner, and then pointed at the bottom of a bookshelf. Michelle saw the slight space right away, and immediately went about searching for a device that would allow her to move the shelf. All the while, Johnny stood facing the door to the room, never letting on whether he was as nervous as Michelle certainly was. It took several minutes, but finally Michelle found a spring-loaded lock six inches back from the edge. She knew that moving one of the books on the shelf would likely open the door, but she and Johnny did not have the luxury of moving each of the dozens of books. It would take too long, and they also ran the risk of setting off alarms that might be hidden in other books alongside the release. They were forced to take their current course of action.

Michelle rubbed her hands and blew on her fingers for good luck, then grasped one of her longer lockpicks lightly in her dextrous grip. It took less than a minute to trip the device, causing the shelf to rise a slight bit from the floor and swing freely away from the wall. Behind the shelf was a small doorway that led immediately to a flight of rough-hewn stone stairs that appeared to be located at the center of the building.

Both vampires entered the spiraling staircase and descended slowly, ignoring the dank, musty scent. Michelle could hardly believe that they had not encountered any guards either right outside or inside the doorway. It was unusual for Ventrue to be so lax with security, especially when they appeared to be guarding something of particular value. Michelle pushed her concerns from her mind, however, and focused instead on the job at hand. Her increased concentration saved her when, without warning, Johnny stopped dead in his tracks on the staircase. He gestured up ahead, where Michelle made out only the slightest glint of metal. Her heart sank as she realized what they now faced – motion detectors. There were four of them, set up in the corners of the descending stairway, each one of them containing two of the others in its field of view. Disarming any of them would be virtually impossible without setting off at least one of the remaining three. The Gangrel's eyes scanned the walls, just as she was sure Johnny's also were. Fairly fresh mortar had been placed on the walls, sealing the electric wires. It would be impossible to cut the power to the sensors without making at least a little noise, and equally impossible to know for certain if there were any noise sensors or sentries further down.

Johnny turned back to Michelle with a grim expression, and she knew exactly what he was thinking – they had to decide whether to continue or abandon the attempt. Johnny nodded almost imperceptibly down the stairs, his eyes holding a questioning expression. Michelle knew he was leaving the final decision to her. _Great, just what I need,_ she thought angrily. She knew they would be able to get past the sensors, but that it would take time. There was no telling whether or not the delay would give a sentry the chance to move up or down through the staircase, causing them to get caught. Reluctantly, Michelle nodded her assent to continuing the job, and Johnny nodded back.

To the casual observer, it would have almost seemed that neither vampire moved for at least a minute after nodding to each other. To an experienced thief, however, the sight would have brought a tear to the eye. Both vampires had continued their descent, but at a vastly decelerated rate. Their muscles moved with excruciatingly slow precision, just as the hands of a clock. Michelle blocked out all thought from her mind save concentration on her movements. While she herself knew that she never stopped moving, she realized that to the casual observer it likely seemed as if she was standing still. The muscle control necessary for the task was enormous, and after ten minutes her body was aching from the effort. However, despite the pain, she dared not either stop or speed up. It took another five minutes of effort before Johnny finally moved his body quickly down a few steps, giving Michelle the room she needed to completely move out of the sensors' view. Once her companion had resumed normal movement, all of the pain seemed to flee from Michelle's body. She had only one and a half more steps to go, and the knowledge that she was almost done seemed to revive her a great deal. _One and a half steps,_ she counted out. _That'll only take about three minutes._ That was the one and only time she allowed her thoughts to drift, though. After that momentary lapse, she returned her mind to the task at hand. Finally, after what seemed like the longest three minutes of her life, Michelle stepped down and out of range of the sensors. Instantly her movements sped up to their normal rate.

_That sucked,_ she thought silently to herself. Johnny smiled thinly back at her, and the two thieves continued cautiously down the dark staircase. Finally, after descending what seemed like fifty feet, they arrived at a landing. The hallway before them was made of cobblestones, and went for about ten feet before it turned to the left. _Rather defensible,_ Michelle noted. _Anyone wanting to keep out intruders would be able to set up a defense at the bottom of the spiral staircase, and then again around that corner._ With that thought her heart sank slightly as she wondered what would be awaiting them around the corner. Johnny had already moved up to the bend and was taking a mirror out of his pocket. He angled the glass just enough to see down the next hallway, and then stepped back immediately. Michelle's heart jumped and her hands immediately went to the two Glocks she had at the small of her back. Johnny gestured for her to wait, and then he handed the mirror to her.

Michelle walked slowly and angled the mirror herself, not at all certain that she wanted to know what was waiting for them around the turn. What she saw knocked the wind out of her. A large man sat in a chair at the far end of the hall, his hands resting lightly on an M-60 standing on a tripod. Behind him was a large, obviously thick ironbound oak door with three locks. _The last line of defense,_ Michelle thought ruefully. She scanned the man again, this time allowing her eyes to shift their focus slightly as she made use of her ability to read auras. The guard's aura was strong, and laced with thin black veins throughout. He was a diablerist – a vampire that fed on the blood of other vampires. Whether that meant he had actually gone out and killed a vampire and drained his essence, or whether he was a blood-bound sentry made little difference. Michelle knew that in either scenario he would likely be a formidable opponent.

She looked expectantly at Johnny, who for his part seemed lost in thought. Michelle knew he was trying to figure out some way to get to the door without alerting the guard. Twenty feet separated them from the guard, so they would not be able to simply walk around the corner and stick a knife in his throat as they finished him off. Besides, she knew, they would have to leave the guard intact if they were to leave the building without anyone ever knowing they had been there, as was the plan. The only apparent way to do that was to dominate the guard, but Michelle had her doubts about that. She knew that to dominate the will of another vampire, Johnny would need to make eye contact. Beyond that, he needed to expend effort to subjugate the other's will. That would take time, and even a few seconds would be all the sentry needed to pull the trigger on the rifle, bringing God only knew how many extra guards.

_No,_ she knew, _we'll have to evade him somehow. It's the only way._ The only thing she could think to do was to have Johnny use his ability to walk through shadows. It was possible for her companion to step into a shadow and then reappear from a different shadow of his own choosing. The one catch, however, was the path between the two shadows took him, body and soul, through what he had only been able to describe as a realm of shadow. He said it was like a different, parallel dimension where nightmares took form. Recently Johnny had been more and more hesitant to employ his vampiric control of shadows – the Lasombra-created discipline of obtenebration. She seriously doubted whether he would use it now, even after all the effort the pair had already put forth to get this far.

As if in answer to her thoughts, Johnny turned back to the Gangrel with a questioning gaze. Michelle knew he had not reached any conclusion as to how to get past the guard. Michelle could only shrug her shoulders in response. Johnny then closed his eyes and slowly inhaled deeply. Michelle could tell her partner was using all five senses to examine the area, doubtlessly searching for anything that might help him. She followed suit, and augmented her own senses. She took the mirror again and scanned the guarded hallway, this time examining the stone walls for any sign of an additional secret door. She concentrated on her hearing, trying to detect any noise that could give them a clue as to a weakness in the defenses. She found none. Even her sense of smell was heightened, but all she could pick up in the stagnant air were the dominant scent of moisture, with a hint of cinnamon, along with oil, which she assumed was from the heavy machine gun around the corner. She was about to lower her heightened senses entirely when she picked up the slightest hint of blood. Her eyes went wide with surprise, and she saw that Johnny had noticed her reaction. He shot a questioning gaze at her, and she simply pointed to her nose. She saw him inhale, but his curious look remained. _He doesn't smell it,_ she realized. _So either I'm imagining things, which is all too possible, or it's too faint for him to detect. If it's that faint, then it's old._ She shook her head slightly, trying to clear her thoughts. She was grasping at straws, and knew it. She shrugged her shoulders and then turned her gaze to the staircase behind them. _Might as well get this over with._ The walk back up was as excruciating as the descent, and it took them almost twenty-five minutes to ascend the relatively short staircase.

In comparison to the stairs, moving through the rest of the building seemed like child's play. Once again the pair evaded one security provision after another. After another fifteen minutes they were back outside and moving toward Johnny's car.

"That seemed like a colossal waste of time," Johnny stated evenly, his disappointment obvious.

"I don't know," Michelle replied, not voicing the agreement she was feeling. "We at least know that they're really serious about protecting whatever it is they have down there.

"We could have guessed that before we went in," Johnny shot back.

"I suppose," Michelle admitted. "So what now?"

"Don't know," Johnny answered. "Let's go somewhere and go over the job step by step and see if there's anything one of us saw that the other didn't. Maybe if we put enough pieces together we'll come up with something."

"Maybe," Michelle answered doubtfully, knowing already that it was unlikely a short conversation would uncover anything that either of them missed during the job. _If nothing else, though, that was certainly more fun than going out there fighting the Sabbat,_ she thought silently. The siege had been strangely passé compared to her earlier experiences opposing a Sabbat siege in San Francisco. Sure, the Brujah and Nosferatu had taken fairly heavy losses, but none of the other clans, save the Toreador and the regent himself, had even seen much action, no less taken serious casualties. Something in Michelle's gut made her think they had simply been lucky so far, that all too soon all hell would break loose. She pushed those thoughts from her mind, though, as she closed the door to Johnny's car and fastened her seatbelt. _Maybe it won't be all that bad after all,_ she told herself, trying desperately to believe that they had already seen the worst of what there was in New Orleans.

**VII**

As Johnny and Michelle walked into the Telemon haven, Brett walked slowly into the front room and looked the pair over, his eyes seeming to scan them very carefully. _Fuck,_ Johnny silently cursed, knowing from his clanmate's expression that he was likely going to get chewed out for disappearing again.

"Where were you?" Brett asked, his even tone conveying none of the anger that Johnny had expected.

"We were out doing some reconnaissance," Yashida answered, suddenly growing uneasy with the situation. He could tell that Brett was obviously upset about something, but it did not appear to be related to anything Johnny had done. It was a new experience that Johnny could never have expected, no less prepare for. "What's up?"

There was an attack after the primogen meeting earlier," Brett explained. "Southpaw just came over and told me about it personally. Of course, he wanted to meet with you, but I had to tell him you were out doing something secretive." Johnny ignored the implications of Brett's statement, and instead devoted all of his attention to Brett's words. He could not imagine what had his commander so worried. "Seems the Sabbat just hit the Tremere."

"The Tremere?" Johnny asked, unable to hide any of his surprise. He had known that eventually the Sabbat would have to hit one of the stronger clans rather than the Nosferatu and Brujah, but Johnny had picked the Tremere to be perhaps the strongest clan in the city. He had expected the Sabbat to leave the Tremere for last, only moving against the warlocks when they had cut away several layers of defense and removed the hope for any assistance. Yashida would have bet on the Toreador or Malkavians to be the next established clan to suffer casualties. "So do we know what's gonna happen now?"

"Not yet," Brett replied. "Southpaw wanted to bounce some ideas around, but neither one of us was too comfortable being very candid with the other. We both decided it would probably be best to wait until you got back."

"Fine," Yashida responded. "I'll give Southpaw a call and set up a meeting." _Maybe I should have just announced my presence while I was breaking into his place,_ Johnny thought with a smile. _It would have saved me a trip. Of course, I'd probably also have ended up being accused of trying to assassinate my employers, so it's just as well that I got out free and clear. I just can't wait to hear how all this happened._

-------------------------------------------------

Yashida glanced up as Southpaw walked into the Starbuck's coffeehouse on Maple Ave., just a couple of blocks from Phillip's bar. Southpaw walked over and looked at Yashida with slightly disgusted eyes as the small Telemon spooned off the whipped cream from his large iced mocha. Johnny smiled broadly as the Ventrue avoided making eye contact, knowing all too well how Southpaw felt about the thought of a vampire eating standard human fare.

"So what the hell happened?" Johnny asked immediately, wanting to be done with the meeting by the time he finished his drink. There was still a bit of time left in the night, and he hoped to meet up once again with Damage Incorporated.

"We think the Sabbat hit Martin on his way back from the meeting," Southpaw explained.

"You _think_ it was the Sabbat?" Yashida asked, suddenly interested in the fact that there may be some doubt. "Why would you think it could have been anyone else?"

"There were only two bodies," Southpaw answered. "Both of the ghouls that Martin had with him had their heads blown off and were left behind. Martin and his three guards were taken away, though."

"Warlocks are valuable prizes for Sabbat soldiers," Johnny pointed out. "Doesn't seem unusual to me." Despite his words, though, he felt that Southpaw was right – something about the situation just seemed wrong.

"Jasper already pointed that out," Southpaw said, referring to the Gangrel primogen. "He said the Sabbat probably didn't kill the warlocks until they got back to their haven. He figures they probably diablerized the Tremere."

"Stands to reason," Johnny said. _But why wouldn't they leave at least one of the low-ranking bodyguards behind?_ he wondered. _It would have been a great way to endanger the Masquerade._ The Telemon kept his thoughts to himself, however, and filed his most recent questions with earlier ones, most notably the matter of who had killed the regent and the Toreador primogen. Johnny was already starting to have his suspicions about those matters.

"So you think it was the Sabbat?" Southpaw asked. "It just doesn't seem to right to me."

"Well, I've learned to trust my instincts," Johnny said, making certain his answer was evasive enough to avoid presenting any sort of definite opinion. "Maybe you should, too. I'm sure if it wasn't the Sabbat, we'll find out about it soon enough."

"Why's that?" Southpaw asked.

"If someone has it in for the Tremere, they'll take another shot at Martin's successor," Johnny said. "If we just see one of the other primogen get whacked, though, it's a good bet it was the Sabbat."

"I guess you're right," Southpaw said. "I mean, who else would want to kill the regent and two of our primogen?"

"Wait a second, you think it was the same person that did all of them?" Johnny asked. "I haven't seen or heard anything that would make me think that. For all we know, Du Lenne offed the regent, and then the Sabbat killed Du Lenne. They probably just did Martin, too."

"You're starting to confuse me,' Southpaw admitted. "My sire used to always handle this stuff. I wasn't called in until he had decided who to target."

"I see," Johnny said, filing away the information that in the eyes of the city's Ventrue elders, Southpaw was only a fist, and not the mind that controlled it. "I'll poke around with my contacts. Why don't you keep your ears open around your superiors? Let me know if you find out anything, and I'll do the same."

"Sure," Southpaw said, already rising to leave.

Johnny leaned back in his leather armchair and started gazing at a young college girl who was hard at work despite the late hour. She caught the Telemon looking at her, and immediately looked away bashfully. _Well, seems like a possibility,_ the thief thought gleefully. _I do need to get a meal, after all. Might as well get that over with now before I get back to work._

**VIII**

Johnny walked into Phillip's bar cautiously, not knowing what kind of greeting he would receive from his anarch allies. He had seen Simeon's Dodge Dart parked outside, so he knew that at least the group's de facto leader was present. _If I'm lucky, he'll be the only one here, and I'll be able to see what's up and reason with him if necessary,_ the Telemon planned. _If they're all here, though, and if they have any suspicions about me..._ Without dwelling on the uncomfortable thought any further, the Telemon double-checked his two Berettas and walked into the bar. As expected, he was carded, but once the formalities were out of the way he moved toward the bar itself, spotting Sara filling a pitcher of Abita Amber for three college guys.

"Hey," the young ghoul said, making Johnny realize that he had all but ignored her since he had arrived in New Orleans. He had provided her with blood a few times, but other than that they really had not seen each other.

"Hey, back," Yashida said with a grin that he hoped hid his anxiety. "You know, we should catch up some time."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Sara commented. "But I assume you're here for business right now."

"The anarchs," the Telemon confirmed with a nod. "Any idea how they're feeling about stuff lately?"

"Well, I know they're pretty much thankful as shit that the Angel of Death hasn't turned his attention on them yet, but other than that… I don't know. Word has it that most anarchs on the Gulf Coast have decided New Orleans is off their itineraries. The ones east of us are staying there, and no one is making the treck across from Texas, either. Looks like fresh anarch recruits are out of the question."

"Great."

"And the few that are left are probably gonna call it quits any day now," the ghoul added. "One of the other bartenders here is a ghoul of one of the non-anarch Brujah, and she says they're likely gone by the end of the week. It's not good."

"The Sabbat is succeeding in each of its goals," Johnny agreed. "With the rest of the clans divided the way they are… I just don't know."

"Anyway, what's left of Damage, Inc. is at the pool tables," Sara told her master. "I have that shotgun you gave me, just in case."

"For future reference, that was just about the least reassuring thing you coul have said," Johnny told her as he walked away. It was already three o'clock, but neither the late hour nor the recent surge in violent crime had dissuaded the locals from having a good time. The bar was still fairly full, and the usual smoky mist was actually thick enough to reduce visibility just halfway across the bar. It took a few moments for Yashida to spot Damage, Inc. just where Sara had said they were; Simeon, DeNiro, and Barb were standing around the pool table, apparently playing a game of cutthroat.

"How are all y'all doin'?" Yashida asked pleasantly as he walked up to the group.

"You got a lot of balls showing up here," Barb spat in reply. Neither Simeon nor DeNiro, however, displayed any reaction at all. To all intents and purposes, it appeared as if they had not even noticed that Johnny had walked up.

"Oh yeah?" Johnny asked evenly. "Why's that?"

"Who are you?" DeNiro asked, suddenly deciding to join the conversation. "And what the hell did you do to Cabbage Patch?"

"I killed her," Johnny replied. "She was a Sabbat spy."

"Oh really?" Barb asked, plainly not believing a word that Johnny was saying.

"Really," Johnny answered. "I haven't seen any of you since the night of the gunfight, so let me lay it all out for you. I laid down cover fire to help you get away, and then I decided to help Brett and Uiko whack the entire group of those animals."

"So what happened to Uiko?" Simeon asked, finally seeming to find something that interested him. "We haven't heard from her at all, either."

"She came with me," Johnny said. "I'm not really Caitiff."

"You don't say," Barb shot back sarcastically. "We already pretty much figured you're probably a Brujah mercenary working for the powers that be in the city. Just another tool of the elders that's come to fuck with the anarchs."

"You really believe that?" Johnny asked angrily, not bothering to try to play nice anymore. _If they want a fight, I'll give 'em one they won't forget,_ he decided. _Three on one's rough odds, but I'll be a little more than they expect. The surprise should be just enough of an advantage to be able to walk out of here in one piece. Besides, Sara probably has her hands on her birthday present at this very moment._ "My real name is Johnny, and I'm Telemon, actually."

"No shit," Simeon said with a whistle. "Now that I wouldn't have guessed in a million years."

"What the fuck is a Telemon?" DeNiro asked. Barb's face remained completely impassive. Something about her made Johnny think she had heard of his clan before, and he was willing to guess the experience had been none too pleasant.

"They're mercenaries," Simeon explained. "You claim to be some kind of new bloodline, right?"

"That's right," Johnny confirmed.

"So I assume you're here to fight the Sabbat," Simeon guessed.

"Right again," Johnny answered.

"And when you're done with the Sabbat?" DeNiro asked.

"We'll leave," Johnny said.

"Oh, you expect us to believe that?" Barb interjected. "The primogen are gonna have a free-for-all to choose the next prince. You'll work in that fight, I suppose. Then when they're all done shooting each other up, they'll turn to the anarchs and have you gun us down. You'll end up killing your supposed friends."

"No," Johnny said simply. "That won't happen."

"Yeah, right."

"We only work against the Sabbat," Yashida continued. "We're a small, young clan. You guys know how the elders are. If we took sides in their power struggles against each other, eventually someone would decide to whack us so we can't fuck up some centuries-old scheme to avenge a slight no one remembers. As long as we only fight the Sabbat, the Camarilla will have a use for us. As long as they have a use for us, they'll let us be."

"And then what will you do?" Simeon asked.

"We'll find a place for ourselves in the world," Johnny said.

"You'll become one of them," DeNiro clarified.

"The elders set up the rules," Johnny pointed out, "and as a result they can use them to their own advantage. All my little clan is doing is trying to find a way to survive while staying inside the lines."

"Can't happen," Barb said angrily. "The elders will always win. You can't beat them at their own game. The only way to survive is to kill them all."

"No offense, but I prefer my chances to yours," Johnny said with a smirk.

"So, is it possible to join up?" DeNiro asked.

"What?" Johnny replied quizzically. He had gone into the bar to see if he could somehow make amends with his former gang and at the very least ensure that he would not get gunned down from behind one day. He had never actually expected to be able to make legitimate recruits of his friends.

"Anarchs in the city have only one of two choices anymore," Simeon said. "We either leave, or run the risk of running into the Sabbat's Angel of Death. Neither one sounds good to me, though most are getting the hell out of Dodge. I grew up here, and the city is part of me. I don't want to leave. I don't think I'll be able to defeat Death, though. I don't see why we can't continue to run together like we did before. No reason for you to abandon us, or vice versa."

"True," DeNiro agreed.

"I don't believe this," Barb muttered. "You're talking about joining up with some of the pawns of the elders."

"We're _all_ pawns of the elders," Yashida pointed out. "They're using my clan as a sword and the anarchs as a shield. You know, most anarchs spend decades bitching and moaning about the way the Camarilla uses them, but in the end, the ones that get old enough always return to the Camarilla eventually. Whether it be fifty years, or a hundred years, or sometimes, rarely, even two hundred years, they always go back. So my clan has come up with a way to essentially be anarchs while planning the whole time to return to the fold."

"I never thought about it that way," Simeon muttered. "You're right, though. Those of us that live long enough always go back. It's just not safe out there alone, what with the lupines, the Sabbat, and the hunters. I'll join up if you'll have me."

"Me, too," DeNiro put in happily.

"Count me out," Barb answered. "I've sworn to always oppose the elders. If you want to be jerked around by our would-be masters, go right ahead. Just know that the next time we see each other, you better make sure you're heavy."

"Don't be like that," Simeon said, seeming to want to get both of his anarch friends to follow along.

"I'll join the Sabbat before I ever march to the beat of the elders' drum," Barb answered, her voice bordering on fury. "All y'all can rot in hell for all I care. Have a good fuckin' life." Without another word the girl walked away from the group and toward the door.

"Barb, wait," DeNiro called out. The Brujah made a move to follow her, but Simeon grabbed his arm.

"Let her go," Simeon advised. "She has to calm down at the very least. Maybe she'll come back, maybe she won't. It has to be her decision, though."

"I guess," DeNiro conceded reluctantly, taking a few moments before returning his attention to his two friends. "So what do we do now?"

"You become mercenaries," Yashida said. "I'll put you in touch with someone," he continued, already recalling Southpaw's phone number in his mind. "Tell him you've heard about the siege and that you'd like to offer your services."

"And what do we get out of it?" DeNiro asked greedily.

"Probably not much," Yashida admitted. "It's not like you're well known or anything, and you also have to keep in mind that once the fight is over no one is gonna want to have you staying around if you were a merc during the siege. I know a mercenary... a good one... and he lives pretty much alone. He's got money, though, and he knows lots of powerful people that owe him favors. You should just know what kind of life is waiting for you if you make this move."

"I can't do that," Simeon said. "Like I said before, I won't leave this city. I guess I'll just have to fight to defend it like everyone else."

"I guess so," Johnny said. "Let me offer you some new equipment, though, at the very least. I have an extra armor vest and a couple of Glock 10mm's."

"That would be great," Simeon said with a smile. "You know, I've heard some things about your clan."

"Such as?" Yashida asked curiously.

"I heard that you work for princes to help eradicate anarchs," Simeon said. "Word has it the founder of the clan first made a name for himself by butchering an anarch pack, and that it was that attack that brought him to the attention of the princes."

"Not at all true," Johnny said. "I do most of our arrangements, and I like running with the anarchs far too much to ever take a job wiping them out. Besides, like I said, it's just bad business, and the kind of thing that's guaranteed to come back to bite us in the ass later. You know me. You know the kind of person I am. Don't believe the rumors. There are those out there, particularly but not exclusively the Sabbat, who have an interest in turning the anarchs against us. You're old enough to see that."

"Yeah," Simeon muttered. "So, what about you, DeNiro?" he asked, turning toward his friend.

"I think I could live as a mercenary," DeNiro said, "but I'll need some equipment and maybe someone to show me the ropes."

"I'll make you a deal," Yashida offered. "I'll hook you up and show you what to do. All you ever have to do in return is work to make sure that these shitty rumors that Simeon has been talking about aren't believed by every anarch that hears them."

"I think I could do that," DeNiro replied.

"Great," Yashida said with a smile. "I love having friends in the anarch community, and I think you'll come to like having friends in the mercenary community. To quote one of my favorite movies, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

_To be continued……………………………………_


	7. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 6

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

**-----------------------------------------------------------**

CHAPTER 6

**I**

"Thanks for coming to meet with me," Johnny said, keeping his eyes scanning his surroundings rather than watching the man sitting before him. "I know it must have been a risk to you."

"Unavoidable," K.T. replied. "I want you to do a job for me, so a face-to-face meeting is called for. It's tradition."

"It's not like you don't already know me," Johnny pointed out.

"I just like to see the look on the face of someone who hires me, or someone I hire," K.T. responded. "Especially if I think that person might be up to something."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Johnny asked evenly.

"We _are_ on different sides of this war," K.T. reminded his fellow mercenary. "You don't think I'm going to trust you completely, do you?"

"Not a chance," Johnny answered with a thin smile. "So you're sure you want to go through with this?" the Telemon asked, deciding to get right down to business. The two vampires were out in the open, relatively speaking, sitting on the top floor of Tulane's Law Library. Due to the late hour and the early point in the semester, the area was completely vacant.

"I'm sure," K.T. answered grimly.

"This is pretty cold, even for you," Johnny said. "I would have liked to think you didn't have it in you to do something like this."

"It's not like I'll be killing the girl myself," K.T. answered.

"No, you're hiring an assassin to do it for you," Johnny said. "Something about that only seems to make it all worse."

"Doesn't matter to me," K.T. said. "I want Erica's childe killed. Name a price."

"Consider it professional courtesy," Johnny said.

"Fuck that," K.T. responded gruffly, pushing some stray hair out of his face and focusing on his friend. "I don't want to feel like I owe you anything."

"And I don't want to go to sleep every morning knowing that I actually accepted payment to kill some innocent girl just because she got in the way of your relationship with Erica," Johnny countered. "I do have a little bit of a conscience. Not much of one, but it's still there. If I consider this a favor to a friend, it's not quite as bad as cold-blooded murder for hire of an innocent."

"Call it what you will, but I want this to be a job, not a favor," K.T. said. "If it bothers your conscience so fucking much, I'll do it myself."

"And if Erica sees you, or even suspects that you did it?" Johnny asked. "What then?"

"I'll deal with that if and when it comes up," K.T. replied. An uneasy silence followed for several minutes as the two vampires gazed at each other, each trying to figure out what the other was thinking.

"No, I'll do it," Johnny finally said. "And as compensation, I want some information."

"Such as?" K.T. asked curiously. "I hope you don't expect me to give up any information that could be considered a breach of my contract."

"I'll tell you what," Johnny said humorlessly, "if I ask anything that makes you uncomfortable answering, just tell me so and we'll both forget I ever even asked."

"Fine," the Gangrel said. "So, ask away."

"You killed the Toreador primogen, didn't you?" Johnny asked.

"Yes," K.T. replied.

"I'm impressed," the Telemon admitted. "That was a tough job."

"Yes, it was," the mercenary agreed. "Next question."

"Did you kill the regent?"

"No," K.T. said. "Breaking into a Toreador haven – even the haven of the clan's is one thing. Trying to get at the regent is something else entirely. I don't think I could have done it."

"So does the Sabbat have an Assamite?"

"Whether they do or not, you should know I can't say," K.T. replied. "Next question."

"Do you know who did kill the regent?" Johnny asked, trying another angle.

"No," K.T. admitted, his lack of knowledge not seeming to bother him much at all.

"Really?" Johnny asked.

"There's no point in lying to you about it," K.T. shot back. "Your payment is information. It's a matter of honor to be truthful in our negotiations."

"Sorry," Johnny muttered. "Next question, I guess. Did you kill Martin?"

"No," K.T. answered, "and before you ask, I don't know who did that, either."

"It wasn't the Sabbat?" Johnny asked.

"I didn't say that," K.T. responded. "It could easily have been the Sabbat. Just keep in mind that as I'm a mercenary, it's unlikely that the bishop is going to tell me everything he plans, and every asset he has at his disposal. There's always the chance that I might go run off and start talking to someone on the other side."

"Point taken," Yashida said. "Now, please keep in mind that I'm not planning on hitting the bishop, whoever he is. I don't want numbers or anything. All I would like to know with this question is exactly what I ask."

"Fine," K.T. said.

"Okay, then here goes," Johnny said, hoping that his setup for the question was adequate. "I assume the bishop has bodyguards. Like I said, I know you can't tell me how many of them there are, or how tough they are or whatever. All I would like to know is if there are any scary-looking ones."

"What?" K.T. asked.

"Do any of the bishop's Templars look scary?" Johnny asked again.

"I suppose so," K.T. admitted, knowing that Vlad could very easily be considered a rather intimidating presence.

"Is he either Tzimisce or Assamite?" Johnny asked.

"Watch it, Johnny," K.T. warned. "You're walking a very fine line."

"If it makes you uncomfortable, don't answer," Yashida countered.

"I'm not really sure," K.T. said after a moment. "It's not like the bishop goes around introducing his Templars by name and clan. If I had to guess, though, I would say Tzimisce. He certainly looks vaguely Eastern European, though he's a little larger than you might expect. Not that that information does much for you."

"Not much at all," Johnny admitted. "It should be enough for what I have in mind, though."

"And what is that?" K.T. asked.

"Well, this conversation has caused me to come to a couple of disturbing conclusions, and I need a basis for a pretty plausible lie," Johnny said with a smile.

"Meaning you needed just enough truth to make your line of shit easier to believe," K.T. concluded, a small smile coming across his face for the first time since he had entered the city.

"You catch on quickly, grasshopper," the Telemon said. "Now, as for the girl, I know you'll probably want this done soon. I suggest you make certain you're busy doing something rather high profile, so that Erica will always know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you're not responsible."

"Sure," K.T. said. "So I guess you're about to ask me when I plan to do my next job."

"Well, that would be nice," Johnny admitted. "But if I knew that, then I would be sorely tempted to warn the Brujah and Nosferatu that you're on your way to kill more of them." The Telemon grew silent and his demeanor darkened considerably. "You've killed some really nice people during this siege, K.T. Some of them were friends."

"I know," K.T. said. "If it's any consolation, it was just business. I didn't have anything against any of them."

"I know that," Johnny replied. "It's the one reason I can still bear to be civil enough with you to have this conversation. I'll tell you what – I'll call you an hour before I take the girl out. That way you have enough time to go somewhere and cause all hell to break loose. Just try not to kill anyone I know."

"No promises," K.T. said sourly. "Maybe you would be best served by advising anyone you know to get the fuck out of the city before something unfortunate happens to them."

"We'll see," Yashida answered, obviously starting to become angrier. "We should probably end this meeting now before one of us does something regrettable."

"By all means," K.T. said, rising from his chair and starting toward the staircase.

Yashida sat alone behind him, going over everything he had learned. _So, K.T. only whacked Du Lenne. That means someone else did Martin and Ash. Why would the bishop send K.T. to kill one primogen if he already had someone else waiting in the wings who was just as good, or even better? If K.T. is the best the bishop has, he would probably have used him for all three jobs. If he has someone else, likely an Assamite, it wouldn't make sense to risk losing an extremely expensive mercenary going after a target that someone else in his forces was more qualified to take out. So therefore the hit on Du Lenne makes no sense, either._ The more Johnny thought about the situation, the more convinced he became that the Sabbat was not responsible for the regent's, and probably also Martin's, death.

After spending a few moments in thought, the Telemon also stood and left, certain that K.T. had had plenty of time to get far enough away so that neither or the two mercenaries would have to look at each other again anytime soon. He was completely unaware that a pair of unseen eyes had been watching the entire meeting, and now hatched their own plans.

**II**

Erica led Kendra into Pat O'Brien's, a large bar just off Bourbon Street that was a favorite gathering place for both tourists and local college students. The two girls entered and walked down the dark entry hall, passing by the piano bar and small pub that were on either side, and continued toward the main patio. Once they were back out in the open, both girls scanned the crowd, each one looking for a suitable pair of men that would become dinner for them later on. Both of the young vampires spotted the same pair at the same time, and turned to each other with a grin. Erica led the way, walking right up to the young men, smiling amicably as one of them turned to face her.

"Hi," Erica said pleasantly. "What's your name?"

"Uh, Jack," the guy said uneasily. Erica guessed that the average-looking male was not accustomed to being approached by women. _He probably thinks I'm a prostitute,_ she thought awkwardly. _I'll have to make sure he gets rid of that notion quickly._

"My name's Erica," the Ventrue antitribu said, shuffling her feet slightly so that she seemed unsure of herself. She grabbed Jack's hand and pulled him closer to herself. "My friend there is interested in that guy you're with. Please just tell me you two aren't gay or anything."

"No way," Jack said a little too loudly for his own good. Both his own friend and Kendra looked at Erica and Jack curiously, wondering what the two were talking about in their hushed tones.

"Great," Erica said, spreading her lips in a broad smile that lit up her entire face. "Why don't we get a table?"

"Fine," Jack answered. He gestured for a waiter, who immediately led them through the crowd.

"Tell him not to seat us too close to the fountain," Erica asked, feeling uncomfortable being near the flaming fountain. Jack passed on her request, and the waiter found the group a seat in the back corner of the patio. It amazed Erica that the waiter had met with success so quickly. There were people moving through the patio, searching for any sign of a table being vacated, and none of them were meeting with much success. The waiter, on the other hand, walked up to a table just as the people seated there were beginning to leave, securing the foursome a spot before anyone else could get it. The feat seemed almost magical.

"Can I get you anything to drink," the waiter asked.

"Just water for me," Erica said, "with a lot of ice in it. The more ice, the better." She knew that as they all sat there, the ice would melt and slowly lower the water level in the glass. It would almost seem as if she had been drinking some of it.

"Same for me," Kendra added.

"You can't be serious," Jack said. "You gotta have at least one hurricane. The place is famous for them."

"Not tonight," Erica said, her voice tinged with regret. "We have a volleyball match tomorrow," she explained, using the lie that she and Kendra had decided upon before leaving that night. "We don't want to be hung over or anything."

"Fine," Jack said, obviously disappointed. "I'll have a hurricane, though. What about you, Bill?" he asked, turning to his friend.

"Same for me," the other man said as he produced a gold Zippo lighter and lit a Marlboro Light with a flick of his wrist.

The waiter nodded and walked away, and Erica started to take some time to look closely at the two guys. Jack was completely ordinary looking, standing only about 5'10", with brown hair and brown eyes. _Tomorrow morning he'll count his lucky stars that he got to be with me,_ she concluded. She then looked at Bill, who seemed only slightly less average. He stood a shade above six feet, but also had brown hair and dull brown eyes. Both men were thin, and appeared to be around twenty-one years old. _Just old enough to get in here._

Erica noted with approval that Kendra was already starting to flirt with Bill, using her eyes more than her voice to lure him into feeling that he would be getting lucky that night. The waiter finally returned with the two hurricanes, and the group settled in for hours of small talk.

By two in the morning, the crowd in Pat O's had thinned out considerably, and both Bill and Jack were a little more than slightly inebriated. Erica and Kendra were, of course, completely coherent, and both could sense that they would feed well. They gathered the two men up and got into a cab, heading for an apartment that the two men shared uptown.

Once they had arrived at the small place, Kendra and Erica split up, each one taking her intended victim into a bedroom. Erica quickly had her prey undressed, and started to get him worked up as she took off her own clothes. It had been a long time since she had been able to regularly feed as she wished. Her entire time in New Orleans had been an unexpected treat, and she was finally starting to remember the small things that she had given up when she had started to run across the country with K.T.

In New York, when she had still run with the Sabbat, Erica had regularly gone to bars and picked up mortal men the same way she had that night. She would then take them home and have sex with them. While she derived no physical pleasure from sex the way she had as a mortal, Erica knew that to her partner, the experience was just as enjoyable as it would be had she been alive. Her body still felt and acted the same, and she could burn a slight portion of her blood to increase her body temperature enough so that it was impossible to tell she was usually as cold as a corpse. She would give her partner every bit of pleasure that he desired, and would bite into his neck as he climaxed. Erica would then be able to taste not only the blood that she needed to survive, but also the endorphins that were present. It was a rush that made her feel alive again, if only for a few seconds. She also knew the pleasure she provided her partner was second to none other, as the ecstasy of the kiss would be added to the pleasure of his orgasm. Far more often than not the man passed out, leaving her all the opportunity she needed to return to her haven by morning.

Jack proved to be like so many others, and fell unconscious as soon as Erica was done with him. She immediately got out of bed and started to get her clothes on, still a little pumped from the incredible meal she had just enjoyed. _That's definitely something I miss,_ she mused. She knew K.T. would never accept her mounting her prey on a nightly basis, riding them hard to give them as much pleasure as she could. Erica had almost been amused the first time K.T. had stepped in to prevent her being alone with her meal. She had pointed out that it was just sex, and it didn't mean anything now that they were both dead. K.T. had never felt that way, though. He had never liked her seducing the mortals, and always felt as if Erica's flirtations meant that she held him in low regard. _Fucking possessive asshole,_ she thought angrily, knocking herself from her reverie as she hooked her bra and slipped her tight black shirt over her head. _He'd probably even call me a hummer or something,_ she fumed, remembering one of the popular Sabbat terms for female vampires that fed as she did.

She could hear the sounds of moaning from the adjoining room, and knew that Kendra would soon be done herself. Erica checked the Beretta she had in her purse, and then went to work putting on her black leather knee-high boots. Suddenly, she heard the moaning from the next room turn into whimpering, and then all noise completely stopped. _Fuck,_ Erica cursed silently, already guessing what had happened. She walked across the hall and burst into Bill's room, finding Bill lying completely still on his bed, his skin obviously pale even in the dim lighting. Kendra was still at his throat, her fangs buried into his flesh seeking more blood as her body continued to rock up and down in her straddle position.

"What are you doing?" Erica asked calmly. She could tell that Bill was dead. There was nothing the two could do for him now. All that was left was for her to chastise her childe for being so careless with her meal. Kendra slowly stopped, and then turned to face her sire. Blood dripped from her lips, running down and dripping from her chin onto her breasts.

"Sorry," she said bashfully. "I guess I got carried away."

"Good guess," Erica agreed. "We could have come back and had these guys again sometime," the Ventrue antitribu continued. "Now that won't be an option." She looked around the room and almost breathed a sigh of relief as she noted the gold Zippo and pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. "Get dressed, I'll start a fire."

Fifteen minutes later they were walking out of the small apartment, not bothering to turn back to watch the flames consume the interior. Erica did not care at all whether or not Jack woke up in time to get out safely. She had enjoyed her meal, and that was all that mattered. She remembered the teaching she had received at the feet of her Sabbat compatriots – the lives of mortals meant little. Had she stopped to think about it, though, she would have been surprised that she had taken the care to destroy the drained corpse. It was not as if the Sabbat had ever held the Masquerade in any high esteem.

"I can't believe that happened," Kendra said, her voice sounding pitiful. "I killed that man."

"Don't worry about it," Erica said, falling right back into the habit of spouting the Sabbat party line. "He was just a mortal. They're our food, Kendra. Don't ever forget that. We're vampires – we're better than they are. Save your grief for something that matters."

**III**

Johnny Yashida looked around the primogens' meeting table with a cautious eye, not bothering to think about how much the faces had changed in the few weeks that the Sabbat siege had been going on. The newest face was Philip Hoi, the man who replaced Carlos Martin as the head of the Tremere. Johnny knew the man from San Francisco. Just before most of the city's kindred inhabitants had been wiped out, the Telemon and Tremere had formed a tentative alliance to battle an unseen threat. Apparently, it was because of his experience with the Telemon that Hoi had been sent to New Orleans. He was the only member of his clan to escape the massacre in the Bay Area, and now his superiors seemed to want the Chinese kindred to put to work some of the experience he had gained. At least, that is what Hoi had told Johnny. The Telemon suspected that there was far more to the situation than he had been told, though. He could always expect the Tremere to tell less than the whole truth whenever they were presented with the opportunity to do so.

"So what exactly is it that you want?" Sheridan asked, seeming to take the lead in getting the meeting underway. "You were assured that there would be no change in our decision to keep you employed. None of us see the need to hold this meeting, especially considering the fact that one of our number was killed a week ago."

"My apologies," Johnny said smoothly. "My associates and I are concerned about the way this siege is being handled. We would request that certain changes be instituted."

"Such as?" O'Reilly asked with a curious stare. "I was under the impression you would do as you wished, and also allow us the same latitude."

"We're losing this war," Yashida stated evenly, noting that not a single one of the faces in front of him registered any surprise. "When we wiped out the Uptown gang, we seemed to have the Sabbat on the run. In only a few weeks, though, they have reorganized effectively. They have embraced as many as three-dozen vampires that they've used as shock troops, causing losses we cannot easily replace. Their mercenary, this so-called Angel of Death, has all but wiped out the local Brujah and caused most of the Nosferatu that have not fled the city to go deep into the sewers in hiding. It seems to me that our enemies are in position to start striking at the heart of the city's kindred power, and you are nowhere near being ready to take it."

"And what would you suggest?" Calaban asked. For the briefest moment Johnny thought it strange that the Nosferatu primogen remained near the surface when virtually all of her clanmates had vanished from sight, but he pushed the thought from his mind quickly.

"Choose a new regent," Johnny said.

"We've been through this," Sheridan said. "In fact, every night we all start a conference call where we try to sort out our differences, but with no result. We seem unable to choose a leader until we discover who killed the last one."

"My superiors have requested that you name either Yoshi or Hoi as your regent until the end of the siege," Yashida stated. "We want to know that you have a unified voice, and neither of them was in the city when this siege began. As a result, we think it more than likely that neither of them was directly responsible for the previous regent's death, no matter what their clan's involvement may or may not have been."

"Not a chance in hell," Sheridan shot back. "I don't know either of them. No one here does. The Ventrue will not follow them."

"You mean the Ventrue will not give up the inside track to having one of their number become the next prince," O'Reilly corrected. "I like the Telemon request. There seems to be some kind of insane logic to it," the Malkavian quipped. "I'm fine with holding a vote right now. My clan will follow whoever is elected, although only for the duration of the siege. Once the Sabbat have been driven out, the acting regent had better step down immediately, under penalty of death."

"Fine," Calaban said. "This is what my clan was clamoring for weeks ago. While you sat around, however, over a dozen Nosferatu were butchered. I find it convenient that only now, when you are yourselves threatened, do you begin to consider finding a new leader to give you one voice. The Nosferatu will not forget your self-serving actions during this siege," she spat angrily to all of those seated at the table. "Well, except for you," she amended, turning toward Mark, the Brujah representative. It seemed to Johnny that the Nosferatu and Brujah had gotten closer as both clans were trimmed mercilessly by K.T.'s assaults.

"As I seem to have something to gain, or lose, depending on you point of view, I abstain from casting a vote," Yoshi said evenly.

"As do I," Hoi echoed a moment later.

"Well, duh, I'm with Cal on this one," Mark said. "I'd love to have some of you uppity assholes getting killed, too."

"And where is Jasper?" Sheridan asked. "He should be here to cast a vote."

"It's irrelevant," Timothy," O'Reilly said. "Even if he sided with you, you would still lose 3-2, with two abstentions," the Malkavian pointed out. "I say we vote. Now."

"You can't be serious," Sheridan interjected. "Like I already said, we don't know either of them."

"I will decline to vie for the position," Hoi suddenly said, immediately seeming to add to the palpable tension that Sheridan's objections were creating. "I put my support behind Yoshi. I have looked into his background and found that he has spent a great deal of his time fighting the Sabbat. He goes from city to city, searching for sieges. I would expect him to have the experience we would need to be an effective wartime regent, and I am confident he would leave the city when this is done."

"No," Yashida said sternly. "I think we should have at least two candidates." The Telemon's heart had started to beat with his increased anxiety. He knew all too well how this could look. After all, he was the one who had come to the meeting to ask for a new regent.

The night before, Yoshi had asked Johnny to make the request, and suggest himself and Hoi – the two newcomers. It had seemed like a reasonable plan, and so Johnny had gone along with the scheme, though he knew the whole time that he was likely playing at politics more than he should have. Once Hoi had spoken up at the meeting, though, Johnny had realized that Yoshi had likely also had a private conversation with his Tremere counterpart. The two older vampires had worked out an agreement of their own.

Yoshi and Hoi had already decided who would be the new regent, and had only used Johnny as a pawn to raise the issue in the meeting. This would make it seem as if neither of them had actively sought the authority and power that came with being regent. Now that Yashida knew he had been used, he had to do all in his power to make certain that everyone at the table had no doubts that he had been duped. He knew that being labeled as a manipulated fool was preferable to being suspected of having been in league with Yoshi and Hoi from the beginning. His clan could not afford to get the reputation of being involved with internal power struggles.

"It does not seem necessary to have another candidate," Hoi stated. "As we already said, only Yoshi and I could take the position without excessive suspicion. I feel that it is best for all concerned if Yoshi leads us. That makes the vote unnecessary."

"You should give Sheridan a chance," Johnny said a little too anxiously. He was embarrassed by the hint of desperation he was forced to add to his voice, but he knew that everyone at the table caught it. That would be enough.

"No, that's fine," Sheridan said with a thin smile. Johnny knew that the Ventrue primogen had figured out what happened and had apparently decided that it would not be in his best interests to oppose the current action. The Telemon knew that Sheridan would make his own move soon enough. "Does anyone oppose Yoshi?" Sheridan asked the collected primogen. No one said a word. "Then I guess you're to be our leader," Sheridan said, a slight hint of anger and disgust in his voice. "Just make sure you remember to step down when the siege is over."

"When the siege is over, I'll have absolutely no interest in being here anymore," Yoshi assured the Ventrue. "Now, however, we have a war to win. I have already spoken to Steele," the Toreador said, referring to a man that everyone at the table had heard of. "He has agreed to organize the Krewe of Steele to defend not only the French Quarter, but all of the city as well. If any of you are members of the Krewe, I would expect you will be receiving instructions in the near future. Please also advise your subordinates that they are not to oppose Steele's authority over the Krewe until the siege is over. He will be getting his instructions directly from me."

"It's about time," Calaban said.

"I'm not done yet," Yoshi said angrily, obviously annoyed at the interruption. "Calaban, by tomorrow's sunset I expect you to tell me exactly how many of your clan are still in the city and willing to fight. The same goes for you, Mark," Yoshi added, turning suddenly to the Brujah primogen.

"And what about the others?" Mark asked angrily. "You think it's gonna be more of the same or what?"

"The Tremere are being given five days to reorganize to accommodate Hoi's plans for the clan," Yoshi said. "If any other clan suffers a similar blow and installs a new leader, you will be given the same consideration. The Ventrue will start leaning on their businesses and human contacts; they will then funnel a great deal of their money to the war effort. Their clan alone will pay for the Telemon and any equipment our mercenaries need. The Toreador will start using their heightened senses to form patrol packs aimed at detecting Sabbat vampires. Once located, strike teams from the Krewe of Steele, which is comprised of kindred from all of the clans, will be called in to deal with the situation. Fair enough?"

"Sure," Mark said.

"Not by a long shot," Sheridan commented. "You expect my clan not only to fight as soldiers in the Krewe, but to also foot the bill for your war?"

"Are you implying that the Ventrue are in no position to spend that kind of money?" Yoshi asked pointedly. "I was under the impression your resources were far more expansive than you seem to be indicating." The Toreador leader smiled thinly, as if he knew exactly the position in which he had placed his Ventrue counterpart. Sheridan would not want to spend the money, but his pride would prevent him from claiming financial hardship. Johnny knew that Sheridan would likely go broke before he claimed that he was unable to meet the financial burden that had been placed upon him.

"And us?" Johnny asked.

"You will be assigned to me," Yoshi answered. "I know your clan operates on its own, and I am not implying that your autonomy is to be taken from you. My understanding is that you accept targets from your employers but insist that the methods employed to take out said targets is entirely within your discretion."

"Correct," Johnny confirmed.

"You will stay with me, then," Yoshi repeated. "All information should come to me. If I need something taken out, you will do so."

"Understood," Johnny said.

"You will also function as bodyguards," Yoshi added.

"Out of the question," Johnny responded evenly. "We take no part in internal conflicts. If someone wants to take you out, they should be free to do so without my clan's interference."

"So even if you were standing right next to me you would do nothing?" Yoshi asked, obviously surprised.

"That's not what my clan was hired for," Johnny said, his voice dripping with a slight bit of venom. He knew that Yoshi had just used him, and he would not be put into any position where defense of the new regent would be expected of him.

"I see," Yoshi muttered. "Fine, I will use my own bodyguards." The new regent then looked over the faces gathered around the table, and smiled thinly. "You may all go. The meeting is over." Everyone began to stand to leave, and Yoshi looked directly at Yashida. The small Telemon almost took a step back when the thin smile on Yoshi's face melted away into a menacing sneer.

"That was unfair," the Telemon complained to the new regent as soon as the primogen had left the room. He assumed that Yoshi was angry with him, and Yashida had no desire to allow his employer initiate the argument he knew was coming. The Telemon took the offensive immediately.

"What do you think you're doing, challenging me in front of the primogen?" Yoshi roared, ignoring Yashida's complaint. "Do you have any idea how precarious my position is?"

"You and Hoi had an agreement before you showed up here," Johnny replied, ignoring Yoshi's comments as much as the Toreador had ignored his own. "You had me play the part of the supposedly neutral outsider pushing for organization. Then, as soon as I took what I was led to believe was a non-political action, you turned it into a one-man election. You set me up."

"And you almost destroyed my efforts!"

"You exaggerate," Johnny said. "Sheridan might not be happy with the situation, but he and the others know they need a leader. His bitching is just for show."

"Of course it is," Yoshi replied. "But you made me look a fool in front of men that should respect my authority. I was not regent for more than thirty seconds when you immediately began undermining me."

"Fuck you," Johnny said evenly. "You should have known better."

"Perhaps," Yoshi said, his voice suddenly becoming calm. The instant change in the regent's demeanor threw Johnny off guard and made him uneasy. "I have need of your services immediately."

"Where?" Johnny asked, deciding that the brief argument was now at an end. Each of the two men had damaged the other's position. It appeared as if Yoshi was ready to move on to more important matters.

"I just received word from one of my friends that a Sabbat pack from Slidell has just been called in to reinforce those that are already here."

"Do you want them destroyed or followed?" Johnny asked.

"My information indicates that they are only here to create chaos," Yoshi answered. "They will likely not be working directly with whatever forces are already here. They'll be meeting a representative of the local forces down at the Superdome sometime before dawn. Go there and get ready. Destroy the incoming pack and follow their contact."

"Sure," Johnny answered. "You sure you don't want prisoners?"

"I want them dead," Yoshi spat. "Our resources are spread thinly enough as it is. I cannot afford to keep some of our people away from action just to conduct an interrogation."

"Anything else?" Yashida asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Yoshi said. "I have heard that you have an anarch friend that has decided to try his hand at being a mercenary."

"That's right," Johnny confirmed. "His name's DeNiro."

"Have him come to me," Yoshi said. "I'll hire him myself. I want someone to look into some of the tenements in the city for me. The Sabbat have to be hiding somewhere. If we can find where, we can have the Ventrue use their mortal contacts to burn down the buildings during daylight hours. That's much better for the Masquerade than running around having gunfights."

"Certainly," Johnny agreed. "I'll send him to you as soon as I get my people moving on their orders."

**IV**

"I'm in position," Johnny heard Melissa mutter over the com system. She had been brought along as a sniper. While Johnny had been reluctant to include her in his clan's assault, Brett pointed out that they were likely undermanned for the job that Yoshi had assigned to them. They would need all the help they could get, and that meant putting Mel on sniper duty and bringing Mason down into the trenches. It seemed two of Yashida's childer would be given new combat experiences.

"Keep your eyes open and your mouths shut," Brett ordered. Everyone had reported in and was ready, so now all that remained was to wait. It was the part that Johnny knew most soldiers liked least, though he had no major problems with it. He was more than happy to put off any action that could result in his death.

Johnny looked over his equipment briefly, not bothering to give it too much attention. He had faith in his pre-op check of his weapons. Going over everything with a lot of attention while in the field would only decrease his concentration, and that could prove fatal. He crouched motionless in the shadow of a minivan, waiting for what seemed an eternity. Over an hour later, Mel's voice finally came through over the com once again.

"This might be it," she reported. "Two cars, both with Louisiana license plates; looks like they're together. I think I see three in the front car, and four in the rear." A few moments passed before Johnny heard anything more. "They're stopping, and the passengers are getting out. Yeah, there's seven of them, all right. No visible weapons, but I can see bulges where two of them would likely be carrying pistols."

Johnny stood slightly and began to direct his blood into his appendages, increasing his coordination. The slight difference could mean the difference between a made or a missed shot.

"Anyone else?" Brett asked.

"Nothing yet," Melissa responded from her vantage point.

"You're sure?" Brett checked.

"Of course I am," Mel replied, a little too curtly. Johnny knew that response would likely get her a few comments from Brett during debriefing. "Hold on," she added a brief moment later. "I see a single headlight coming down Poydras. A motorcycle... looks like an old Indian Bike."

_Shit,_ Johnny thought immediately, recognizing that more than likely K.T. was the contact. _Of all the people..._

"We could have a problem," Johnny said over the com line.

"Report," Brett ordered.

"I think I know the contact," Johnny said evenly. "If he is who I think he is, we might encounter heavier resistance than we expected. We might want to abort."

"No," Brett answered. "This is our first specifically ordered strike. We're not aborting."

"This guy is a mercenary for the Sabbat," Johnny added. "He's been around as long as Siras. We might want to reconsider."

The pause that followed made Johnny's hair almost stand on end. He knew the tension of the situation was making him feel that time was moving more slowly than it was, and the experience was excruciating. "We're not aborting," Brett repeated.

_Fine,_ Johnny thought in reply. He had done his part – he had offered his commanding officer some new information. Brett had made a battlefield decision, and now the die was cast. Yashida had no choice but to obey his orders, whether he agreed or not. He went over the plan again in his head. He would open up with his MP-5 during the initial salvo, and then melt away into the shadows, leaving his clanmates to do the work of killing the Slidell pack. His one and only responsibility after the fighting started was to take a position where he could see the local contact, and then follow him back to wherever he went. Hopefully, that would betray the location of more of the Sabbat invaders.

"Looks like Johnny was right," Mel said. "The motorcycle is stopping at the curb, about thirty feet from the cars. Looks like this guy is the contact. The seven Sabbat are slowly walking over."

"Prepare to take your shot," Brett ordered. "We'll move once you open up."

"Understood," Mel replied. Once again, time seemed to slow down as Johnny waited several seconds for the fighting to begin. Then a muffled crack split the relative silence of the pre-dawn night. Johnny looked around the minivan and saw one of the vampires hit the pavement, part of his head having been blasted away from the rest. K.T. had already fallen into a defensive crouch, but the Sabbat from Slidell all seemed slightly confused. Then, with a frightening suddenness, the muffled sounds of automatic gunfire opened up from several directions and the area around the vampires was reduced to debris. Their two cars were cut to pieces, and bits of flesh began to fly off the vampires' bones. They were alive but shocked by the brutality of the initial attack, and that left them open to the next phase of the assault. Johnny watched as Uiko, Michelle, Brett, and Mason charged from their hiding places as Melissa continued to fire at her targets from above. K.T. had rolled to the side and now stood to face the attack. He let loose several shots, emptying the chamber in his Ruger, but did little more than cause both Mason and Brett to break stride. He took a moment to look over the group quickly, apparently gauging the relative strength of his allies as opposed to the obviously well-disciplined attackers that had set an extremely effective ambush. K.T. made the same decision Johnny would have – he ran. As planned, Brett's team let him go.

Johnny immediately used his knowledge of the vampiric discipline of Obfuscate, an ability that allowed him to become invisible to the naked eye. He then took two short steps and flew up into the air, allowing an unobstructed view of his friend. K.T. was moving at an incredible speed, though his movements were somewhat awkward. Johnny guessed that the mercenary had taken a few serious wounds and had not yet had an opportunity to heal them. It did not matter too much to the Telemon. As long as K.T. lived long enough to lead Johnny to a new group of targets, Yashida would be happy.

As K.T. rounded a corner he stopped suddenly, his back against the wall, and he looked around. _He's probably making sure no one is doing exactly what I've been assigned to do,_ the Telemon guessed. A few moments passed, and Johnny also surmised that K.T. was trying to heal some of his wounds. Even from twenty feet above his friend, Johnny could see that some of K.T. injuries were severe. He doubted the Gangrel would be able to fully heal himself until after he had fed and returned to the safety of his haven.

After about a full minute of waiting, K.T. started moving again. He headed into a parking garage, moving out of Johnny's line of sight. _Shit,_ the Telemon cursed. _I can't let him get too far ahead of me. I might end up losing him._

Yashida flew down and into the first level, where K.T. had entered, only to find a wide-open space. There was no sign of the mercenary. _Fuck!_ Johnny landed and began to walk slowly, using his blood to completely conceal the sound of his footfalls. He examined every shadow, every corner, searching for any place where the mercenary could be hiding. He found nothing. Johnny was so intent on searching for an obvious sign, however, that he overlooked what was one of the last clues he would even have been searching for. As soon as he had landed, Johnny's feet disrupted a mist that was so thin as to be almost completely undetectable. While the Telemon was still invisible, his feet's position in the mist betrayed his presence. As he searched, he was never aware of the mist gathering itself, coalescing behind him into a very solid form.

Johnny became aware of K.T.'s presence only when a .44 caliber round tore through his chest. The Telemon was thrown forward and spun with the motion, seeing his attacker even as it became obvious that K.T. could also see him. Yashida cursed as he realized that the Gangrel had been able to detect him somehow, and now that he was injured he would find it very difficult to disappear again.

"Shouldn't have followed me, Johnny," K.T. said.

"Probably not," Johnny admitted. In a flash of movement that he hoped would surprise his foe, Yashida drew two Beretta 9mm pistols from beneath his black windbreaker and began firing. He was up and running even as K.T. started firing back, also moving his feet supernaturally fast. In less than five seconds, both kindred had exhausted their ammunition and dropped their firearms. Johnny tried to change direction enough to avoid being cornered, but failed. While he could tell that K.T. was a slight bit slower, the mercenary had gained a superior angle in his pursuit and pinned Johnny in. All that was left was to fight.

Yashida drew his ninja-to from its scabbard on his back and fell back into a fighting stance. K.T. grinned in response and grew his hands into claws. _Fuck,_ Johnny said, remembering how effective his friend could be with the razor sharp claws that were all too common for members of the Gangrel clan. _This is probably gonna hurt._ He just hoped that if K.T. gained the upper hand he would, at the very least, refrain from killing him.

K.T. lunged at Johnny, and the Telemon sidestepped even as he realized K.T.'s initial thrust had been a feint. Yashida regained his balance at the final possible moment and managed to parry K.T.'s left claw. He was not quick enough, however, to parry the right, and the taloned hand raked across Johnny's midsection. His kevlar was shredded, but his abdomen remained fairly well protected as a result of the extra padding. _That wasn't meant to kill,_ Johnny realized. K.T. had been given an opening, but had not fully exploited it. If the Gangrel had aimed to cut deeper, Johnny knew he would likely be doubled over on the ground. Instead, he was still standing, and was now paying far more attention to his adversary.

"You're better than I expected," Johnny admitted. "I always figured you used that hand cannon of yours so much that you never put in enough training in hand to hand." As he talked, hoping to distract the Gangrel with conversation, Johnny began to sidestep very slowly, hoping to work just enough empty space to escape the corner in which he was still pinned. K.T. seemed well aware of his intentions, and would not allow him an inch of quarter.

_Why not?_ Johnny wondered. _If he's not fighting to kill, then there's no reason not to let me just walk away from this. He could simply order me to run as fast as I could in one direction while he took off in the other. He'd be able to get away._ His thoughts were cut off as K.T. lunged again. This time, Johnny was ready for him. The small Telemon took a quick step back to avoid the first swing, then sidestepped once, and then twice. A quick kick into K.T.'s stomach caught the mercenary unawares, and Johnny then fell into a crouch as he swung his sword in a tight, backhanded arc, catching K.T. across the thigh. Like K.T., Johnny had not cut deeply, but the grimace on K.T.'s face revealed what Johnny had suspected – K.T. had been hurt before they even started fighting. Adding another wound was slowing the Gangrel down more than Yashida would have expected. Johnny then rolled backward, his feet ending just against the bottom of the wall, and then thrusted the sword forward once at each of K.T.'s legs. The Gangrel took a half step back each time, and Johnny then rolled forward, sprang to his feet, and took a half step forward himself. He had gained almost a yard in space away from the wall, and knew he would be able to work his way out of the garage soon.

As Johnny was figuring out how to improve his situation even more, however, K.T. lunged unexpectedly. It was all Johnny could do simply to avoid being tackled, but as it was his sidestep was not completely effective. His left arm was raked deeply, and his sword provided enough protection only to redirect K.T.'s fist. Rather than having the mercenary's claw completely embedded in his abdomen, he simply had a deep gouge that sent pain shooting through his entire body.

Johnny swung his sword wildly, only wanting to fight off the Gangrel before he got himself killed. The sword cut a thin line across K.T.'s jaw, but the mercenary did not even realize he had been cut before Johnny's backhand scored the hit that the Telemon had been looking for. The wickedly sharp steel bit into K.T.'s throat, severing the blood vessels and opening the larynx. If Johnny had been two inches closer he would have decapitated his friend, but his experience with his weapon allowed him to avoid that result. The Telemon staggered back, grabbing his abdomen with his left hand as he continued to swing his sword in tight, defensive arcs with his right. K.T. looked aghast at Johnny's attack, and the smaller combatant suddenly feared that his foe would lose himself to the beast, not an uncommon occurrence for members of the Gangrel clan.

K.T. sneered and began to approach again, pushing Johnny farther back against the wall. There was murder in K.T.'s eyes, and the Telemon knew he would have almost no room to move. His only escape would likely be to kill K.T., and that was not an option that Johnny really wanted to consider. _I have to get at least a few more feet to work with,_ Johnny knew. _If I push him back just the slightest bit, I can try to fly my ass out of here._ He gritted his teeth and focused, trying with all his might to fight off the pain that was making it harder and harder to think, let alone move. Still covering his stomach with his left hand, Johnny took a challenging step forward as he shouted and swung the sword with the right. K.T. met the Telemon's short charge and attempted to rip into his smaller foe. Johnny parried again, but K.T.'s off-hand found an opening and tore into Johnny's left thigh. The Telemon winced but countered, finding a soft spot in K.T.'s defenses around his upper arm. The thin blade sliced through K.T.'s left bicep, making the arm all but useless. The Gangrel's right hand, however, was still fully mobile and completely deadly, and swung at Johnny's head. The Telemon leaned back enough to save his life, but not far enough to avoid a painful strike. K.T.'s claw ripped into Johnny's face, taking the left eyeball and almost slicing off the bottom half of his nose. Johnny did not even have time to cry out as he lunged forward with his sword, knowing he would not last much longer. He impaled K.T. through his right side, and the Gangrel gasped as he felt the pain.

Reason appeared in K.T.'s eyes once again, banishing the beast that had briefly taken him over. Johnny saw his friend's look of fear, pain, and confusion as he realized the situation. Johnny fell back into a defensive stance once more, trying to judge just how close K.T. was. Without his left eye, however, his depth perception was thrown off the slightest bit and he knew he was vulnerable. The Gangrel snarled, but smiled ever so slightly, making Johnny wonder what he was up to. K.T. then lunged in, a little too carelessly, and swung his right arm in a powerful move. What he gained in power, though, he gave up in speed. Even with his slowed reflexes and skewed perceptions, Johnny was able to evade the strike that could have killed him. He rolled off to the side, and sprang to his feet. He knew K.T. had purposely offered him an opening for escape, and a moment later Johnny was running as quickly as possible, having taken advantage of the opportunity to flee. He never even looked back to see K.T. fall to the ground, exhausted and wounded beyond the point where he could fight any longer. Yashida would not have to make the decision about whether or not to help a fallen foe.

Johnny had failed in his mission to track the bishop's contact, but he figured that his failure would be forgiven. He had, after all, obviously been lucky to escape with his life, and he doubted K.T. would be back on the street anytime soon.

**V**

K.T. sat on the floor of his room in the bed and breakfast, wondering for the umpteenth time how he had gotten himself involved in his latest predicament. For weeks he had defied the odds and killed over three-dozen kindred without ever being seriously injured. Now it seemed as though his luck had run out. First he showed up at a meeting and got cut to ribbons by automatic gunfire. Then he had what was left of him carved up by one of his only friends in the world. It had not been a good night, to say the least.

The Gangrel exerted all of his will and tried to stand, once more only making it halfway to his feet before the pain caused him to slump back down again. The situation was desperate. He had burned most of his blood healing the injuries from the ambush and then fleeing. The fight against Johnny had used up most of what had been left. He had almost no blood remaining to heal the injuries he had taken from Yashida's sword, and it did not take a genius to figure out that the Telemon's blade had been enchanted. The wounds actually burned as he was cut, and he knew it would take days to heal his flesh fully. To do that, though, he would have to feed. A lot. In the condition he was in, he knew he would be unable to take down just one person, let alone the two or three he would need to drain in order to sate his appetite.

The troubles racing through his mind vanished in an instant, however, when he heard a soft knock at the door. If he was lucky, he knew, one of the owners might be outside. That would enable him to be one quick meal closer to feeling better. On the other hand, though, it might be an enemy. Just about anyone, even a mortal, could probably finish him off in the shape he was in. He could not fight, and he could not flee. _I might as well just invite them in,_ he decided, knowing he would have to count on luck to be on his side at least one more time.

"Come in," K.T. yelled in a raspy voice, the result of his throat wound. The doorknob turned slightly, and then stopped and rattled. _Fuck, I forgot I locked the goddamned door,_ K.T. cursed. A moment later a key was inserted, and the door opened, revealing Erica standing in the doorway.

"Oh my god," she gasped, seeing her onetime companion in a bloody heap on the floor. "What happened?"

"Close the door," K.T. directed, not wanting to attract any more attention than he was sure he would by leaving a pool of blood on the hardwood floor.

"Are you okay?" Erica asked as she walked over and started to examine K.T. more closely.

"What do you think?" K.T. asked sarcastically. He could hardly believe Erica could ask such a stupid question. _Are you okay?_ he repeated to himself, wondering what was going through her head. _Sure Erica, I'm fine. Don't you remember me always lying around on the floor in a pile of my own body parts? Stupid bitch..._

"Well, you seem as cranky as ever," Erica commented. "I guess that's a good sign." She gave him a soft smile that seemed to brighten his mood immediately, no matter how hard he tried to stay angry with her. "I heard Death was killed tonight," she added. "I couldn't believe it, so I had to come and check on you."

"Don't call me Death," K.T. said evenly. "That was my sire's moniker. I don't want to be compared to him."

"Hey, I'm not the one that came up with it," Erica said evenly. "The Brujah started calling you the 'Angel of Death,' and then just 'Death' for short, since they apparently didn't have time to say the whole thing before you killed them."

"Whatever," K.T. grumbled. "So is it as bad as I think it is?"

"I can't even believe you're still alive," Erica admitted.

"Well, the Telemon sure do an effective job," K.T. muttered. "I have to give them credit for that much."

"The Telemon did this?" Erica asked. "As in, Johnny's clan?"

"They're fighting for the other side," K.T. reminded her. "Out in the field, we're not friends."

"Did you kill any of them?" Erica asked.

"No," K.T. replied. "I was outgunned in the initial assault, so I ran. Johnny followed me, so I lured him into a trap and tried to take him out. He's a little better than I expected."

"He beat you?" Erica asked, appearing very surprised.

"No, he ran," K.T. replied. "If you think I look bad, you should have seen him. He'll be licking his wounds for a week."

"What can I do?" Erica asked.

"Leave me alone," K.T. replied, turning his head downward so that he would not have to look into her eyes as he sent her away again. He knew that sooner or later she would not come back. He never wanted to see the look on her face when she finally made that decision.

"I can't do that," Erica answered. "I love you, K.T. You should know that by now."

"Then you shouldn't have left," the Gangrel remarked coldly. "Never forget that you're the one who left me."

"You lied to me," Erica reminded him. "You let someone alter my memory, didn't you?"

"And what if I did?" K.T. spat. "Why should it matter? Think about it, Erica. Seriously, try to wrap your mind around this concept – the Sabbat wants you dead. We were forced out of New York, and then hunted halfway across the country. Now think back to whatever it is that you remember happening with Polonia. You think that's enough to merit the attention we got? Come on, you're smarter than that. Trust me when I say that you're far better off not knowing what really happened. I would never be able to protect you if you were allowed to know the truth. In fact, the only way we were allowed to leave alive is because I let them screw with you." K.T. grimaced in pain as finished his rant, and he slumped down even further. Several minutes of silence followed as Erica digested what he had told her, her face set in a vacant expression that gave K.T. no idea what she was thinking.

"You let who screw with me?" Erica finally asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Some very powerful people," K.T. answered. "I can never tell you more than that. Just believe that I didn't want it to happen, but there was no other way I could have kept you alive. I figured a living Erica with a couple of missing memories is better than a completely dead Erica. Even back then I couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose you. So yes, I let them alter you, because I really didn't have a choice. I'm sorry. Now get out."

"I'm not going anywhere," Erica retorted, "and I doubt you'd even have the strength to stand, no less force me to go."

"Bitch," K.T. muttered.

"Asshole," Erica replied, a thin smile replacing her vacant expression. She leaned down and gave K.T. a soft hug. "You have to feed from me," she told him.

"No," K.T. answered. He had already been suffering enough because of the fact that he was blood bound to a woman that still had far too many Sabbat tendencies. The last thing he would do was feed again, thus strengthening the bond. "That's out of the question."

"You need blood," Erica pointed out.

"Not from you," the mercenary said evenly.

"I'm not going to use the blood bond against you, K.T.," she responded. "Don't you know that by now?"

"I can't take the chance," K.T. admitted. "I'd rather die."

"And you're going to die if you don't feed soon," Erica said. "You can't go out hunting in your present condition, either." She leaned in slowly, breathing heavily on K.T.'s neck. The Gangrel could smell her breath, warm with the smell of cinnamon, and he felt his resolve weakening.

_Well, I could feed just this one time,_ he reasoned. _What good are all my bad-ass principles if I'm dead? I can take her blood for now and use it to strengthen myself. Once I'm healed, then I can tell her to go to hell._ He felt Erica's soft lips touch his mangled throat, his skin tingling as she gently kissed his wounds. _Definitely, I'll feed just this one time,_ he decided, unable to resist. His canines grew in length even as he made his decision, and a low, feral growl began to rumble in his ravaged throat.

"Yeah, that's right," Erica moaned. "Take it," she said, turning her own throat toward K.T.'s hungry fangs. He bit into her, tentatively at first, but then his teeth sank in more deeply as he got his first taste of her blood. He felt part of her essence wash over him, and he could actually feel her loneliness, her emptiness. Part of his heart ached for her, for the way she felt, but in the back of his mind he knew that he could do nothing for her.

Just as the experience heightened toward an incredible climax, Erica pulled away, her eyes glazed over. "I missed that so much," she admitted. She leaned back and sat down across from K.T. "Why can't we give 'us' another try, K.T.?"

"I told you before," K.T. said his voice already sounding stronger, "I don't travel in groups. I'm a loner, Erica. I was willing to make an exception for you, but I'm not spending time around that little girl of yours. Three's a crowd." He produced his Zippo and proceeded to light a badly bent cigarette.

"But you don't even know her," Erica argued.

"I don't have to," K.T. said. "I'm a busy guy, Erica, and that means I don't have time to raise a childe. So just run along to your little girl and go play young urban socialite or something." His heart ached at how he was being so vicious with Erica, especially as it was only moments after he had felt so close to her. He could not open the door to acceptance of Kendra, though. He had to draw the line somewhere, and 'somewhere' was right before Kendra. There was no room for compromise.

"Fine," Erica replied, standing up and heading for the door. "I guess I won't come back this time."

"Fine," K.T. grumbled.

"Have a nice life, K.T." She opened the door and stormed out, slamming it shut behind her.

"You have a nice life, too, E. Blackwell," K.T. muttered after she had gone, referring to her the same way he had when he first met her. A bloody tear came to his eye, but he brushed it away quickly, focusing instead on healing his injuries as much as he could. He was still alive, and that meant he had a job to do. There were still far too many Camarilla vampires left to kill.

-------------------------------------------------

Out in the hall, Erica started to sob heavily as she walked toward the stairs. She could hardly believe how quickly she had fallen for K.T. all over again. He had been lying on the floor, completely vulnerable but still acting tough. The image brought a smile to her face but did little to change her mood. She hid her face as she walked out the front door, making certain no one could see the crimson streaks streaking her alabaster skin.

Erica's mind jumped from one topic to another, all of them dealing with K.T. She was blood bound to him, and she knew it. It was nothing like being blood bound to her Sabbat pack. Rather than a weak tie to a group, she experienced an intimate connection to one individual. It was intense, it was consuming, it was painful... it was wonderful. She would not part with her bond for anything in the world, including her beloved childe, and she could not understand why K.T. kept sending her away. She wanted so badly for things to be the way they had been, back before K.T. had accepted the job in New Orleans and started working for the Sabbat once again.

_The Sabbat,_ she pondered, wondering once more what the sect of vampires meant to her. It was the Sabbat that had embraced her into the world of the immortals, and the Sabbat that had taught her the new role she would live as a vampire. It had been so hard to leave New York and start a new life on her own. _Only I was never really alone,_ she reminded herself. _K.T. was always there to take care of me and teach me how to fend for myself. He showed me I didn't need the Sabbat..._ Did she really grow enough to exist independently of her roots? Did she even have a choice?

If what K.T. said was true, Erica knew she could never really go back to the way her life had been in New York. Somehow, though, she had always known that. The experience of falling back in with several Sabbat packs in New Orleans had reminded her of her youth, both as a mortal and a vampire. Seeing K.T. again, and hearing what he had to say, had shown Erica that it was not the Sabbat that she had missed, but the feelings of utter security that she had had as a member of a pack. But now she was a mercenary, just like K.T. She would never again be truly safe the way she had once been. _And I'll never again be so completely under control, as subtle as it may have been,_ she realized. At least that much was a comfort.

True, K.T. might have come within an inch of death, but he was still alive. He could leave if he wanted to, but he was choosing to stay. _At least he had a choice,_ she noted, _even if he's making the wrong one._ Erica suddenly realized, though, just how thoroughly professional K.T. was. He disliked his employers and was probably more vulnerable than he had been in a long time, but he was not even thinking of leaving New Orleans. She had not even needed to ask the question – she could see it in his eyes. _Why did I ever leave him?_ she wondered. _I want him back so bad. Maybe it's like the old saying – you don't know what you got 'til it's gone._

She jumped into the old Ford Escort that she had liberated from some of her prey and pulled out onto Carrollton. _I have to get him back,_ she decided, resolving to find some way to get K.T. to accept her return into his life. _There has to be a way... some way..._ With disturbing suddenness the look of confusion on her face vanished and was replaced with a thin smile. _Duh, you jackass,_ she thought, chastising herself for being so stupid. _I know how I can prove to him how badly I want him back, and also show him how good a mercenary I can be, too._ She then went to work formulating a plan that she was certain would bring K.T. back into her life.

-------------------------------------------------

Across town, Johnny Yashida winced as Michelle finished tying a heavy bandage around his head, leaving a gauze pad over his left eye.

"You know, that's really not necessary," he reminded her. "I'm not going to get any infections or anything, and the eye will regenerate within a couple of days."

"I know," Michelle admitted. "It's just really gross having to sit here and look at your empty, bloody eye socket."

"Sorry it's such a burden on you," Johnny said, fighting through the pain to form a slight grin.

"You about ready, Johnny?" Brett asked as he walked into the room. He had debriefed the others and given them performance ratings, and now only Johnny remained. He had been given some extra time to have Michelle put him back together again. _He seems to have remembered our little conversation about allowing us to tend to each other's wounds,_ Johnny noted with approval. Despite some of his earlier concerns, he was finally feeling as if Brett may yet make a good commander.

"Just give me a few more minutes with him," Michelle answered before Johnny could say anything. He smiled inwardly, knowing that Michelle was all too aware of the fact that he would have said he was ready. She still wanted some time alone with him, to convince herself that he was actually okay after his close brush with death.

"I'll come back in a little bit," Brett said with a small smile that confused Johnny a bit. _I failed in my assignment, _he admitted to himself. _I can't imagine why he seems so damned pleased with me._ Brett walked out, once again leaving Johnny and Michelle alone in the room.

"So," Michelle said after a few minutes of silence, "K.T. is the one that did this, I presume."

"Yeah," Johnny muttered.

"Last I heard, you two were friends," she said, her voice holding an unmistakable tinge of disgust and anger that surprised Yashida. "He decide that's too inconvenient or something? Or was it just that the Sabbat pays welll enough for him to forget who his friends are?"

"We're still friends, as far as I know," Johnny muttered, uncertain where Michelle's hostility was coming from but unwilling to get into an argument before he had enough gauze applied to hold his body together. "It was just business, Michelle. That's all. He couldn't let me follow him to wherever he was going, and I couldn't allow him to simply rip out my insides."

"How the hell can you just sit there and be so cavalier about what he did to you?" Michelle asked. "This is absolutely insane, Johnny. If what that bastard did to me in that alley didn't convince you, at least take a look in a mirror and see what he's done to you. I know you want to keep thinking of K.T. as a friend, but I think it's obvious that it's time to stop."

"Stop?" Yashida asked, genuinely bewildered. "What do you mean? Why would I stop?"

"How many other friends did you have at the beginning of this siege, all of whom are dead because of your so-called buddy, K.T. Corben? Why the hell are you still so much as talking to that insane fuck?"

"It's just business," Johnny said again, unable to grasp why Michelle was insisting on making things personal.

"And One-Eyed Jack?" the Gangrel asked, referring to an anarch she and Johnny knew from a short road trip in Atlantic City several years earlier. He had been one of K.T.'s first victims, his body not just extinguished, but savaged, as K.T. sought to send a message to the rest of the city's kindred population. "Wasn't he a friend, too?"

"Of course."

"And your friend K.T. tore him to pieces and left the chunks for the crows in Jackson Park. But you're willing to forgive K.T. because he happened to get paid to do what he did?"

"It's not that simple," Yashida argued, though he now had to admit that Michelle had a definite point. "It's part of being a mercenary."

"He's not a mercenary, he's a psychopath for hire," Michelle shot back. "We knew what, at least half a dozen anarchs in this city, outside of the ones in Damage, Inc.?"

"At least."

"And they're _all_ dead now. They were friends and information sources, and you just sit there and make like it's no big deal, just because it happens to be K.T. who killed them. And let's stop beating around the fucking bush – he didn't just kill them, Johnny. He killed them for the Sabbat. That makes what he did ten times worse. Taking their money is bad enough, but working so… zealously for them should earn him a death sentence."

"He's fought just as hard _against_ the Sabbat at times," Johnny pointed out.

"And it's because of that that he'll probably avoid getting staked and left out for the morning sun next time he walks into a Camarilla city," Michelle retorted, sounding, if possible, even more disgusted.

"Where the hell is this all coming from?" Johnny finally asked.

"You know, I've never mentioned this before because I know you and K.T. are tight from before you met me, but I've heard about him. The Gangrel are all sorta nomadic, and we're always telling each other stories. I've heard about K.T., his sire, and a couple of his blood brothers. They used to call themselves The Four Horsemen, and they did some seriously evil shit years ago in San Diego. He's certifiable, Johnny, and he has no loyalties. You can't be friends with someone like that. I wasn't just talking shit when I said he's a psychopath for hire – that's exactly what he is. And the only one I can think of as being even crazier is you, because there's no sane reason to trust him. It's like the frog and the scorpion, Johnny. He'll sting you eventually – it's in his nature. And it won't matter if it means he dies, too, because he can't change what he is."

"That's enough," Yashida said, his tone brooking no argument. "You've had your say, and I can't telll you that your concerns are at all unreasonable. But K.T. is my friend, and I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. We're both mercenaries, and there has to be some kind of a code of conduct; it's the only thing that keeps us from being as bad as the Sabbat."

"Your buddy the Angel of Death is far worse than the Sabbat," Michelle shot back. Johnny could not think of a satisfactory response to that, so he held his tongue. "At least tell me you won't do any special favors for him, okay?"

"Huh?"

"Didn't he ask you to do him some kind of special favor?"

"Yeah," Yashida admitted. "Figured that out, did you?"

"Couldn't think of anyone else you know in the city who both needs a favor and hasn't run into K.T. yet," Michelle answered. "Let me guess, he said you owed him after he did you the favor of not ripping out my entrails."

"Okay, seriously… you had your say, now cut the shit," Yashida spat. "Despite your oh-so-subtle approach, rest assured that your message has gotten through – I've actually picked up on the fact that you're not a fan of K.T. Corben."

Michelle glared at Johnny for a few moments, but the fire in her eyes died quickly enough. She went back to applying gauze on his wounds, though it was obvious that she no longer cared about her bedside manner. "So what did he want?" the Gangrel finally asked.

"You know I can't tell you that," Johnny answered. "It's a professional matter."

"He didn't want you to spy on the Camarilla or anything, did he?"

"No, nothing like that," Yashida assured her, smiling despite his pain. He was thoroughly amused by the thought that Michelle had been concerned he could turn traitor. Just a few minutes earlier he would also have found it amusing that she might think K.T. would even ask such of a thing of a fellow mercenary, but he now knew better – Michelle clearly would put nothing past her clanmate. "He would never ask me to betray my employer, just like I would never ask him. We're both professionals. It would be a serious insult to even ask."

"I guess," Michelle commented, going to work bandaging Johnny's thigh. She was almost done when Johnny finally decided to speak.

"He wanted me to kill someone for him," Yashida admitted, wondering why he would tell Michelle when her opinion about K.T. clearly made this a stupid idea. The Telemon tried to tell himself he was saying this because of the pain, though in reality he knew that some part of him just needed someone with whom he could share the truth. He hoped that Michelle would somehow understand, that she might even approve somehow; if _she_ could forgive this kind of act, then it was clearly not morally reprehensible.

"You're not an assassin," the Gangrel pointed out. "Besides, K.T.'s perfectly capable of killing anyone he wants. He's made that abundantly clear during his time in New Orleans. He shouldn't need you."

"He wants me to kill Erica's childe," Johnny said evenly, making certain he did not let on that he had already accepted the job.

"No way," Michelle said. "How could he do something like that? I mean… See what I mean? He's a a fucking psychopath."

"He's a little messed up right now," Johnny admitted, trying to make excuses for his friend. "He's alone in this siege, and I'll bet it didn't help matters to bring Erica into the employ of the Sabbat, what with the fact that she used to be a member."

"She was in the Sabbat?" Michelle asked, wide-eyed.

"Fuck," Johnny spat. "Don't _ever_ tell anyone that. K.T. might kill you to keep that quiet. Seriously. I don't think he's even completely sure that I know."

"I won't ever tell anyone," Michelle said, suddenly seeming as serious and solemn as she ever had. _For whatever that's worth,_ Johnny mused, though he hoped K.T.'s recent behavior would be sufficient to add a healthy does of fear to Michelle's brain. "So Erica embraced a childe without telling him?"

"After walking out on him," Johnny confirmed. "I'm sure there's a lot going on that we don't know, and which I'm sure is none of our business. Long story short, he wants the childe dead."

"That's insane," Michelle said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Even for him, that's just completely whacked. Would you do something like that if I embraced a childe?"

"I've never been put in the situation," Johnny pointed out, "but I do think his reaction is a little extreme. I just don't think K.T.'s very good at dealing with emotions. He likes to pretend he doesn't have any."

"I've noticed that," the Gangrel said, "but killing your lover's childe? That's a little over the top. That would be like me hiring someone to kill Uiko."

"Oh, like you've never thought about it," Yashida shot back half-jokingly.

"Of course I have," Michelle responded with an unsettling smile that made Johnny completely unsure whether or not she was serious. In the end, he decided he did not want to know. "Still," Michelle added, "with as close as those two are, it would almost be like K.T. killing his own childe. I mean, most everything Erica seems to know is stuff I think she picked up from K.T. Although maybe not, if she was in the Sabbat. Still, you'd have to figure that any childe of hers would probably be worthy of him, whatever standards he uses to gauge worthiness."

"Oh shit," Johnny mumbled, a sudden epiphany hitting him like a ton of bricks. "You're right. You're an absolute frickin genius."

"Of course I am," Michelle said.

"Can you hand me my cell phone?" Johnny asked. Michelle nodded and threw it over to him, and he dialed a number from speed dial.

The Gangrel just watched in wonder as Johnny seemed to become completely focused on the task at hand. "Hi," Johnny said into the phone. "I need a favor. I need a meeting with the old man." A couple of moments of silence followed, and Johnny's expression turned sour. "Don't jerk me around, I know you know who I'm talking about. I don't want to say any names over the phone, though. Just set it up for tomorrow night, around midnight." Another brief pause followed, and Johnny's face spread into a grin, and then a grimace as the pain hit him once again. "Fine, I'll be there."

"Who was that?" Michelle asked as soon as her companion had hung up the phone. She had been unable to sneak a peak as he dialed the phone number, and could not guess from the contents of the short conversation who Johnny had been speaking to... or about.

"Business associate," Johnny replied enigmatically. He looked down at his bandaged leg and nodded slightly, as if he was happy with the job that Michelle had done. "Could you tell Brett I'm ready now?" he asked. Without a word, Michelle stood up and left the room, knowing she would likely not get to speak to Johnny until the next evening.

**VI**

Philip stood on the rooftop of the Block-Heller House Bed and Breakfast, gauging how long he had before the sun rose. After a brief moment of thought, he decided that he had enough time to perform his last remaining chore of the night. _K.T. Corben, just what am I going to do with you?_

On the one hand, Philip was pleased that his protege had finally gotten into it with the Telemon. It had certainly been a long time in the waiting. What was disappointing, however, was how the vaunted Angel of Death had failed to kill a single one of his opponents. _It's ludicrous, actually,_ the old Gangrel pondered. _The oldest one of those accursed Telemon is still a good thirty years younger than my man. K.T. should have won. Then again, of course, K.T. _did_ win. He just couldn't finish the job._ Philip wondered about that. It had almost seemed as if K.T. had telegraphed his final strike and allowed Johnny to escape. _But why do that, unless he suspected he was being watched?_ Philip wondered. It made sense that K.T. would be a little paranoid, though, given the circumstances. He was, after all, a trainee of the Black Hand currently posing as an independent mercenary working for the Sabbat during a siege. Either role held the possibility, even the likelihood, that he would be watched at least occasionally.

_Perhaps he didn't plan on letting Yashida go,_ Philip wondered. After all, K.T. had been injured before he had even begun fighting his friend. The smaller, more inexperienced Telemon was not without advantages of his own – he had not burned nearly as much blood, and he was uninjured to start with. _Maybe I should be proud that my young student fared as well as he did._

_That Telemon, though, he was good. I mean, he was really, really good._ The abilities that Johnny had displayed had done no less than amaze the old Gangrel that had been watching. Philip had been surprised to see that Yashida was able to fly, and he could only conclude that Johnny had developed the skill on his own. _Developing a new discipline is something that's unheard of for one so young,_ he realized. _And he was so fast..._

Philip had heard rumors of the Telemon 'bloodline' years earlier and had really never paid any attention to the rumblings. Countless times he had seen small cadres of kindred declare themselves to be a new bloodline. Rarely did they last more than a few years, and not since the Tremere had a young bloodline declared war against a far more established foe. The Telemon had hired themselves out as mercenaries to Camarilla princes, openly opposing the Sabbat on their own terms. The reason had been obvious – the Telemon needed friends. Now they had several of them, and no small number were princes and primogen along the East Coast.

Some within the Black Hand felt that the Telemon deserved attention, but Philip had always felt otherwise. His philosophy had remained constant over the centuries – give them fifty years and get back to me. _But this clan isn't like the others,_ he realized. He knew there was something different, perhaps even something dangerous. They were extremely disciplined and had concentrated on developing vampiric abilities that were conducive to battle. They had carved out a niche for themselves and seemed as if they might actually have a chance of survival. Their familiarity with modern weaponry had given them an advantage over many of their peers, if not also their elders. The Telemon seemed to gain the same kind of advantage from effective use of sub-machineguns and phosphorous-tipped bullets as the Tremere once gained from their dreaded Thaumaturgy. In fact, the more Philip pondered the matter, the more he found the similarities between the two clans to be striking... and disturbing. _It's the disciplines, though,_ he realized, noting that the ability to gain vampiric powers was what truly set the Telemon apart. They seemed faster than they should have been, and they were also clearly more resistant to punishment. A few others in the Black Hand had said the same thing. _The Telemon should not be this strong this soon,_ Philip decided. _There's something going on here that we don't understand._

Philip remembered a conversation he had had with Hassan only a few weeks earlier. He had termed the Telemon a nuisance, a group that could present serious complications if left alone for a few decades. Now he felt that the Telemon might not need decades, after all.

The Gangrel pulled a cell phone from his pocket and called a number on speed dial. A moment later, a voice came in on the other end, thick with a cockney accent.

"'ello?"

"This is Philip," the Gangrel said. "I want some of our field agents reassigned."

"That'll be a right big pain in 'e ass."

"I believe this is the part where you ask if I care," Philip retorted.

"You care?"

"Not at all," Philip said evenly, "but thank you for asking. I want some of our people to go to Boston, to observe the fledgling Telemon clan."

"Telemon?"

"Yes, the Telemon."

"They just caused all kinds o' trouble in Boston, sir. Unexpected complications, there were. Word 'as it the Sabbat's lookin' for a new bishop. I 'ears it's supposed to be tha' Roi guy down in New Orleans wi' you."

"I see," Philip replied. "Talk to whoever is working Roi's promotion and get them to delay his transfer for at least four or five days," Philip instructed. "If there's a problem, have them call me."

"Yes, sir. Is tha' all?"

"Yes," Philip answered. "Delay Roi and prepare me a full tactical file. I want it in three months. I also want an assessor to observe the Telemon soldiers," the Gangrel added, suddenly struck with the inspiration of employing a lower-level minion of the Hand. "Don't tell him anything about the Telemon – only present him with vague identifications and tell him that we're attempting to judge the age of the subjects. Add the assessor's report to the tactical file."

"Yes, sir." The speaker on the other end of the line hung up without another word. _The last time we paid this much attention to such a young line was with the rise of the Giovanni,_ Philip mused. _I hope the Telemon don't cause the same kind of mess. And Roi, getting promoted… That doesn't give me much time to give my young student another chance to redeem himself for his failure against Yashida._

Philip walked from the roof and to a balcony overlooking a backyard, and then entered the building. Once inside, he went directly to K.T.'s room, pausing outside long enough to watch Erica walk away down the hall, her body wracked by sobs. _Ah, it seems young Mr. Corben is staying the course. Very good indeed._

The Gangrel walked down the hall and entered the room without bothering to knock. He found K.T. still sitting on the floor, gritting his teeth with obvious effort as he prepared to stand.

"What did I tell you about coming in unannounced?" K.T. asked angrily.

"Young Mr. Corben, I simply came by to check after your health," Philip said evenly. "I would rather think you would be more courteous."

"I would rather you think about how much you piss me off before just barging in here," K.T. countered with a sneer. _At least there's still some fight left in him,_ Philip noted, looking for any positive signs that would belie the physical wreck that was the young mercenary.

"While I was suitably impressed by your performance against that fledgling this evening, I must confess I'm a little curious as to why he's still alive," Philip said pointedly.

"What fledgling?"

"Mr. Yashida, of course," Philip responded, making certain that he made no gestures that might betray his feelings or thoughts. "He is an old friend of yours, is he not?"

"He is," K.T. admitted. "Though he's been kindred for well over twenty years; I'd hardly call him a fledgling."

"I don't like the thought of you fraternizing with the enemy," Philip said, ignoring K.T.'s editorializing. "No, I don't like it at all. It's not good for business, and it will not be good for your reputation."

"Fuck my reputation, and fuck you," K.T. spat. "You only care about my reputation because the better it is, the easier it is for you to get me into cities to do some killing for you."

"Of course, you _are_ correct," Philip gladly admitted, "but let's not forget that you're being paid quite well for your services. It's not like you get nothing out of this arrangement."

"Oh really?" K.T. asked.

"Okay, so your girlfriend left you and your best friend just cut you to ribbons," Philip conceded, "but it's not like you're completely out of luck. You still have me."

"Gee, I got a boner now," the mercenary grumbled.

"Really K.T., isn't there a more eloquent way of expressing your mood?"

"Sure," the mercenary responded, "but something tells me you'd appreciate that even less."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Corben," Philip said. "I only came here tonight to bring you a message. You may remember that there are some in our organization, such as Hassan, who have never been thrilled about your indoctrination. They feel that you are too young and flighty. I have tried to persuade them otherwise, but they're now demanding I prove the wisdom of my selection to them. They want a show of loyalty, Mr. Corben."

"Oh, this should be great," K.T. said.

"In order to prove your worthiness to remain among us, it has been decided that you will kill Johnny Yashida during this siege. Is that understood?"

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will stop restraining Hassan from killing you," Philip replied with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "And rest assured that if you somehow elude him, someone else will track you down. You cannot escape the True Hand, Mr. Corben. Either you kill Johnny Yashida, or we kill you. Do you understand?"

"Completely."

"And do you have any problems with that?"

"No," K.T. answered. "Not at all."

_To be continued……………………………………_


	8. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 7

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

**-----------------------------------------------------------**

CHAPTER 7

**I**

Johnny walked up to the outer gates of Gregory Ash's home, marveling at how familiar the surroundings had become. _Well, I _have_ been here often enough,_ the Telemon reasoned. To be honest, he could hardly even be sure he could come up with an accurate number of his visits, between councils of the primogen, private meetings with Southpaw, and his one break-in with Michelle, it was getting hard to keep track. The guards had even started to get used to his presence and no longer glared at him quite so much. _Of course, some of that might have to do with the fact that I'm obviously having trouble even walking. I probably don't seem to pose much of a threat._ He continued to struggle on toward the front door, leaning heavily on his cane, trusting Uiko to point out any uneven ground that he had gone unnoticed during previous visits.

Yashida had brought Uiko along for two main reasons. The first was that his relative vulnerability created a need for a bodyguard. He had no desire to expose Michelle to needless danger, and no wish to allow Brett to know what he was up to. That meant that Uiko was the next best candidate. _Actually, Mason would be the next best candidate, but Brett would never expect me to take an anarch along to meet with some of the higher-ups. That would simply cause too much suspicion, and I have no desire to do that._ The second reason for bringing Uiko was that Johnny eventually planned for her to take on a very similar role in the clan to his own. She would need to get experience sometime, and he figured it was as good a time as any to start.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," Southpaw said as he met Johnny and Uiko at the front door.

"You're probably right," Johnny agreed, "but this is probably the best time to do this. I can imagine the old man's probably a little paranoid right now, and I obviously pose no real threat."

"He knows," Southpaw said, "and I think that's one reason he agreed."

"Besides, he's gonna have to come back out eventually," Johnny said.

"Right again," Southpaw agreed. "So I guess there's no way to change your mind."

"Not a chance."

Southpaw nodded in response and led his two guests into the building. He immediately went upstairs and down the hall, leading Johnny and Uiko to the library. So far, everything was going entirely to plan. As Johnny expected, Southpaw led him into the library and went over to the secret door that Yashida and Michelle had found during their covert visit. The Ventrue pulled out a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and the latch disengaged, allowing the bookshelf to swing free. He then led the way down the musty stone stairs, ignoring the motion sensors that had caused Johnny and Michelle so much trouble.

"Who is it?" a voice challenged from below. _Good,_ Johnny thought, _we apparently alerted the guard below by walking past the motion sensors._ He would have kicked himself had he found out that the sensors had only been for show and were not really connected to anything.

"Southpaw," the Ventrue yelled out. "I'm bringing along our guest and his bodyguard." By that point the three kindred had reached the floor and walked around to come into sight of the sentry with the M-60.

"Lose all the weapons," the guard ordered. "And I'll be doing a rather thorough frisk, so let's not embarrass ourselves by 'forgetting' anything." Johnny grinned as he went about handing over his weapons. It was easy enough, as his injuries prevented him from being able to easily use anything but a pistol, and he only carried two of those. Uiko, however, was a little more heavily armed. "I think the boss is gonna want her to stay out here," the sentry added, gesturing toward Uiko.

"There's no way in hell I'm going in there without her," Johnny said honestly. Walking into the lion's den was one thing; going in unarmed and already crippled was something else entirely. "I don't want to cause any problems or anything, but I'm willing to walk out right now if she can't go with me."

"Hey, you're the one who called us," Southpaw reminded the Telemon.

"And if I leave now you're gonna be left to wonder how I knew about the old man," Johnny countered.

The guard looked over the two Telemon for a few seconds, and then nodded. "Fine," he relented, making the decision for Southpaw. "But you'll have to deal with me sitting in, too."

"Fine with me," Johnny said amiably, though the thought did not sit well with him. He was starting to think this had been a very bad idea.

"Stay out here and stand guard," the sentry said to Southpaw. Johnny was surprised to see his contact acquiesce without so much as a hint that he was dissatisfied with his duty. _This guy might only be a guard, but he's obviously high up in the chain of command,_ Yashida realized. The sentry undid the locks on the heavy oak door and led Johnny and Uiko into a plush library.

Yashida immediately noticed how dry and warm the room was, in sharp contrast to the outer hall and just about every other basement and crawlspace in New Orleans. There was a small space heater sitting inside a fake chimney, obviously built just for show. _Can't take the chance of someone sneaking in through a chimney,_ Johnny decided. There were four large, leather armchairs spaced comfortably around the fireplace, and seated at the end of the semi-circular arrangement, facing the door, was the man that Johnny had come to meet.

"Good evening," the man said, "I presume you're Johnny Yashida."

"That's right," the Telemon confirmed. "And this is Uiko Haraya," he added, gesturing to his alluring childe.

"I am, as you have no doubt guessed, Bryan Fleming." He looked satisfied with himself as he said his name, as if that alone was enough to impress him. _Well, he _is_ a Ventrue prince,_ Johnny reminded himself, _self-aggrandizement is par for the course._

"It's nice to finally meet you," Yashida replied, "I've heard a lot about you."

"Of course you have," Fleming muttered. "Now why don't we simply get down to business, yes? Why is it you've come to my home?" His eyes then went from curious to serious, and his lips narrowed into a menacing sneer. "And more importantly, how did you know I had awakened once again?"

"Simple deduction," Johnny answered immediately, making certain he did not seem as if he was holding anything back. "It's what my clan expects of me. I've been trained to see through the misdirection and conjecture of our world and give my people accurate intelligence."

"And so you told them about me?" Fleming asked, his menacing look turning slightly more sinister.

"Not exactly," Johnny said evasively. He knew he would have to play his next cards very carefully. "I left some information that'll be found if I don't return, just as a safety precaution, so to speak. I wanted to make sure we were dealing on even footing. I have not yet told anyone about you, though. I didn't see how that would help my situation or cause you to be willing to deal fairly with me."

"You expect me to deal fairly with you?" Fleming asked. "You are aware, are you not, that I'm the prince of this city? I am within my rights to treat you as I will, and you will do nothing but thank me for it."

"Of course," Johnny answered, biting his tongue and already beginning to steel his will. Even without the wounds he had suffered the night before, he knew he would not be anything remotely approaching a physical challenge to the prince. The one ace he had up his sleeve was that he would very likely be able to dominate the Fleming's mind if he needed to. Yashida knew it was incredibly unlikely that the prince would be able to resist, as his blood was simply too far removed from Caine. Fleming also obviously did not expect to be vulnerable, as he was constantly maintaining eye contact with his guest. _He probably thinks to dominate me if he gets bored with our conversation,_ Johnny decided. _He's a victim of his own situation. He's been in torpor for over fifty years and doesn't yet understand everything. He's heard about anarchs, and has already labeled me as being one of them. Boy is he in for a surprise..._

"So what is it you wish to ask of me?" the prince asked.

"I was hired by your grandchilde, Southpaw, to find the killer of your childe, Gregory Ash," Johnny explained. "I've come to collect my money."

"Well I think that's something you should take up with him," Fleming replied smoothly. _Too smoothly,_ Johnny noted with satisfaction. _He's so obviously old blood, and just a little dated. He really has some catching up to do._

"Am I to take it that we can speak freely in here?" Johnny asked, looking pointedly at Fleming's guard.

"Of course," the Ventrue replied. "Jonas is blood bound to me and has been my loyal guard and retainer for over a hundred and fifty years. He is one of my oldest childer. He knows everything that I do."

"Very well," Johnny sighed. "I know you're the one who killed Ash, or at the very least you ordered him killed," Johnny said, hoping he was right. He had absolutely no evidence that Fleming had killed his own childe, but his gut told him it was so, and every bit of evidence he had seen led to that conclusion by default. It seemed that no one else really could have done it.

"Oh really?" Fleming asked. "And why do you think that? You know, of course, that I should have you killed for even accusing me of such an atrocity."

"Why?" Johnny asked. "It's not an atrocity. Ash was a failure and a disgrace to you. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but he was a weak prince. I can understand why you would have wanted him dead. Besides, as he was your childe, you forever held the power of life and death over him. You were more than free to kill him if you so decided. There was no violation of the Traditions."

"Ah yes, the Traditions," Fleming commented, seeming amused. "I didn't expect one as young as yourself to start reciting the Traditions. You still have not yet answered my question, Mr. Yashida – why do you think I killed my own childe?"

"You want the whole thing, or just the short version?" Johnny asked with a thin, unassuming smile.

"Why don't you entertain me with the whole thing?" Fleming asked, his expression stating that he was willing to humor his guest, but his eyes betraying concern that his actions had been discovered.

"Fine," Johnny replied. "I would assume that you woke up probably about six months ago, is that right?" Fleming nodded. "Well, you awakened to find your city carved up into small spheres of influence, each held primarily by one clan, with Uptown set apart as a community feeding ground. I know I would have been pissed if I awoke to that situation after getting knocked into torpor fighting to retain control of my city." Fleming smiled thinly, as if he was impressed that Yashida understood completely, so the Telemon pressed on.

"So obviously, Ash had failed you. He proved he was weak, so he had to be destroyed. That's perfectly acceptable," Johnny admitted. "However, you had another problem. If you killed Ash and reclaimed your position as prince, you would also have to regain control of the city. That was the truly hard part. I guess it was sometime while you were trying to find a way to solve your problem when someone told you that Sabbat spies were caught in the city. The smart guess would be to assume that the Sabbat was planning to lay siege, and I'll bet you ordered Ash to keep it silent and do nothing about it."

"Are you implying that I would allow the Sabbat to lay siege to my city?" Fleming asked incredulously. "That's absurd."

"It wasn't your city anymore," Johnny pointed out. "It belonged to the divided clans, and not any single prince. A siege would create no end of opportunities for you, and I'm betting that since you've been asleep for fifty years, you don't quite understand how badly the war has been going for the Camarilla. If you had it to do again, you'd probably decide differently, but as they say, hindsight is 20/20." Fleming's only response was an almost imperceptible nod, and Johnny continued, certain that he was at least close to being on the right track.

"So you allowed the siege and used the Sabbat as a screen to kill your own childe," Yashida said. "No one would question the logic of the Sabbat striking at the regent, so you got away with it. Then you also used the siege as an opportunity to kill Martin," Johnny stated. "There were a couple of questions raised on that hit, too, but nothing too serious. Giving up a Tzimisce will certainly explain the absence of the bodies, as any Tzimisce would gladly save a Tremere victim for slow torture later."

"Of course," Fleming commented.

"The Sabbat actually did kill Du Lenne, which worked out beautifully for you," Johnny continued. "Of course, it's always easier to plant a lie inside a truth, and you knew that would help you explain Ash's death later, just as much as it prepared the way for Martin's murder. All that was left was to trim back the rabble and the sewer rats, and the Sabbat packs and mercenaries did a wonderfully efficient job of that for you. I think that pretty much covers it all."

"Well, all of your assumptions seem reasonable," Fleming commented, "but they are all dependent on one major point. You had to have concluded that I had awakened. What made you realize that?"

"It was something Southpaw said," Johnny replied. "When I asked if Ash's murder could have been an inside job, he told me it was impossible. His reason was that all of the guards were blood bound either to him, Ash, or you. Now, you've been in torpor for a long time, about half a century, and anyone who'd been blood bound to you before you went into torpor would have been able to break the effects long before now. The only explanation was that you had reawakened and had gone about re-bonding those who had been bound to you before."

"I see," Fleming said. "A logical conclusion, of course. I'm impressed. So, now what would you like to do about this situation? I, of course, am not yet ready to reassume my role of prince, which means I don't want you spreading word that I've reawakened." He looked the two Telemon over hungrily, and Johnny got the impression that Fleming was considering devouring the two of then and there. After a brief moment, though, the look became more restrained. "However," he continued, "you seem to have made preparation to have the information get out in case anything unfortunate should befall you."

"I don't like taking chances," Yashida said matter-of-factly. "I would tell you that you could trust me to keep silent, but I don't know that you would have any reason to believe me. You likely see me as only another neonate, an immature childe that can hardly be expected to uphold the Masquerade, no less protect one of the greatest secrets in the city."

"You understand completely," Fleming agreed.

"Well, since I'm so young, I still have connection to mortal stuff," Johnny said. "That means I like money. Southpaw promised me five million for finding his sire's murderer, and I've done that. What I propose is this – pay me one and a half million now, and the rest when you decide to make your reappearance to the kindred community. That way I have a rather vested interest in keeping my mouth shut."

"And if someone dominates the information out of you?" Fleming asked.

"Not likely," Johnny replied. "In order to use domination to get information from someone, the question has to be incredibly precise. To ask with enough precision whether or not you're still alive, the individual would pretty much already have to know."

"True enough," Fleming responded with a nod. "I don't like this situation, Mr. Yashida, but I see no easy way out of it."

"That was my intention," Johnny admitted. "I only want to do business, though, not make enemies. Having the prince of New Orleans as a friend could be very good for me."

"Oh, now you want to count me as a friend?" Fleming asked. "After you come in here and blackmail me?" Johnny could see the rage slowly mounting in the prince's eyes, and he decided that a little fast-talking was in order.

"I think blackmail is a little strong a word," Johnny said. "I have a plan that could make this all okay, though."

"Oh really?" the Ventrue inquired. "Another plan, Mr. Yashida? I would think you would stop making any more plans, lest you dig your grave even deeper."

"What does it matter how deep the grave is if one is stupid enough to get himself killed in the first place?" Johnny shot back. "Seems to me I have nothing left to lose, so I give you a new proposition. I can give you a fall guy."

"A fall guy?" Fleming asked, seeming unfamiliar with the term.

"A patsy," Johnny clarified, trying to select a word that Fleming might have heard fifty years earlier, before he had entered torpor. "Someone you can blame for the murders of Ash and Martin. I'll let you know who would be a prime candidate, and you can produce documentation to prove the accusation." Fleming began to smile with satisfaction, and Johnny began to relax. "Once you give the proof to me, I'll give it to Southpaw, just in time for you to make your dramatic and well-timed public emergence from torpor. You can then reclaim your title and consolidate your position before the clans are able to rebuild their power bases following the damage done during the siege." Fleming sat a few moments in silence, seeming to ponder Yashida's plan.

"I like it," the Ventrue said. "Who is your scapegoat?"

"One of the attacking bishop's Templars," Johnny said. "He's a big-ass Tzimisce. I mentioned a Tzimisce earlier, if you remember. We blame him, no one will likely ever be able to tell for sure whether or not it was actually him. It's very hard to get your hands on a Templar, because doing so means you've managed to corner a bishop."

"So it's unlikely anyone will ever get a chance to interrogate him," Fleming concluded.

"You can retake your position and use it to call a blood hunt," Johnny said. "You can have fellow Ventrue princes do you a favor and extend the sentence to other cities, I'm sure. That'll help appease the Tremere and Toreador for the deaths of their primogen, and also decrease the chances that anyone will take the time to interrogate him if they ever get a chance to kill him."

"I don't even think the Toreador and Tremere will need too much appeasement, as they're in terrible shape as it is," Fleming mused.

"So am I to take it your time of preparation is almost at an end?" Yashida guessed.

"Yes," Fleming confirmed. "I've been amassing funds and calling in favors. I'm about ready to squeeze the Sabbat very hard as Yoshi launches this major offensive he has planned. Between the two of us, I hardly think it likely that the Sabbat will survive."

"Of course," Johnny said, even though he felt otherwise. He knew it would take more than a little bit of pressure from the mortals along with a kindred offensive to defeat a Sabbat siege, but he kept his beliefs to himself.

"I find you to be unlike many of the other neonates I've met since awakening," Fleming said.

"Back north, along the East Coast, I'm generally afforded ancilla status," Johnny said. He hated tooting his own horn, but he recognized that with one like Fleming, position was everything. While being an ancilla placed Johnny firmly below Fleming's position, it also meant that he was seen as a mature kindred, and not a childish neonate. It would certainly make a difference."

"I'm impressed," Fleming commented, and Johnny felt the prince was being honest. "You seem a little young for that."

"I've worked hard enough for it," Johnny said.

"I'm sure."

"Well, I hate to walk out suddenly, but I have some other work to do," Yashida said. "Would it be possible for you to fabricate evidence against the Templar by tomorrow night?"

"Absolutely," Fleming said. "I'll have Jonas deliver it to you shortly after nightfall."

"Excellent," Johnny said.

"Make certain you're ready to have Southpaw transfer five million dollars into an account of your choosing upon delivery of the information," Fleming added.

"Five million?" Johnny asked, surprised that he was getting all of the money rather than simply one and a half million."

"You are a clever one, Mr. Yashida, and as you said, it's always nice to have friends," the Ventrue stated smoothly. "Count the prince of New Orleans among yours."

"I'm flattered," Johnny said, making certain he kept his nervousness out of his voice. He quickly stood and led Uiko out of the basement, thankful that Fleming was letting him go. _Oh fuck,_ he thought, fighting back any urge to fall into panic. _That was very bad._ While he had wanted to make the prince his friend, he found it rather unsettling that Fleming had openly said he considered Yashida to fit in that category. _That probably means he's planning to set me up for something,_ he decided. _Then again, maybe he's just fucking with me, knowing I would react this way..._ The Telemon could not decide what Fleming's motives had been, so he did the best thing he could think of – he returned to his haven as quickly as possible.

**II**

K.T. sat Indian style in the middle of his floor, cleaning the barrel of his Ruger Redhawk. _I hate New Orleans,_ he seethed. _I hate the Sabbat, too, and I hate their sieges, and their lack of professionalism, and their money... no, wait, I don't really hate their money._ He smiled briefly, despite himself, and then tried to become lost in the chore of cleaning his weapons once again. His wounds were still extremely painful, and he had not fed since drinking from Erica the night before. He was starting to wonder if he would be able to find a meal, though he was going to stick with the simple plan he had decided upon. The St. Charles Ave. streetcar ran along Carrollton right outside his front door, so he would just wait until drunken college students started riding back uptown from the Quarter. It would be like a rum-flavored walking buffet.

A soft knock came from his door, and K.T. picked up his extra gun – the .45. He kept that loaded and ready while his Ruger was taken apart to be cleaned. He waited a few moments, hoping that whoever was outside would go away. The last thing he needed was for Erica to come back around, offering to let him drink from her again. He doubted his will would hold out any better than it had the night before.

"I know you're in there, Mr. Corben," a male voice called out.

_Fuck,_ K.T. cursed. _Just what I needed – Roi._ "Go away," K.T. growled.

"Not quite yet," Roi said evenly. "I need to speak with you. Now are you going to open the door, or should have Vlad take care of that for you?"

"Hold on," K.T. replied. He struggled to his feet, walked over to the door, and opened it.

"Jeez, K.T., you look like shit," the bishop commented as he walked in. "You should really take better care of yourself. Were you always like this before Erica was around to take care of you?"

"Fuck you," K.T. snarled.

"Pleasant as always," Roi said with a smile. "I do so love dealing with Gangrel. It makes me feel as if I've gotten back to nature, somehow."

"What do you want?" K.T. asked through gritted teeth. He could easily see that the bishop was happy about something, and the Gangrel was reasonably certain that Roi's joy pissed him off more than anything the man said.

"Oh, I could hardly ask for much more than I have already been given," Roi replied. "However, that's not all that important right now. I have recently been told that our siege here in New Orleans is going to be put on a brief hiatus," he said.

"No good," K.T. said. "Taking a break was not in my contract. You cease for any time at all and I'll consider my employment concluded."

"That's fine with me," Roi said. "You have far exceeded my wildest expectations, K.T. You managed to wipe out most of the Brujah and Nosferatu, and you also escaped that Telemon ambush." He looked the mercenary over for a moment, as if he was gauging him for something. "I must admit, that whole fiasco with the Telemon was my fault. It appears that one of the pack members from Slidell was a Camarilla spy. He let the new regent know we were coming, and you walked right into the middle of it."

"I noticed," K.T. said.

"Yes, well, it was sloppy on my part," Roi said, his voice almost apologetic. The smile began to grow, and K.T. could think of almost nothing he wanted to do more than smack the look off the bishop's face. He decided to hold back, though, primarily because he was not certain if he could keep his legs under him if he expended that much effort. "When we resume our siege here, I will no longer be in charge."

"You get busted down in rank for trusting the wrong people?" K.T. asked pleasantly, finally cheered by something.

"No," Roi replied evenly. "I'm being transferred. It seems that our people in Boston just had some problems with a Telemon counter-offensive. It was a big mess, actually. I guess I really shouldn't get into it with you... unless, of course, you would be willing to work for me again in Boston."

"Where I'm sure there's a whole new group of people you can mistakenly trust when you send me for a meeting," K.T. offered sarcastically. "No, I don't think so. Besides, it's not good business for me to work for either the Sabbat or Camarilla too much in these head-to-head confrontations of yours. I should probably work for a few independents for awhile, just to remind everybody that my only interest is myself, and not this silly war you have going on."

"Ah yes, you must retain those principles of yours," Roi said. "By the way, will you let me know what those principles are when you get around to figuring them out?"

"So what's the deal?" the Gangrel asked. "Did you simply come by to gloat, or did you have something relevant to say?"

"We've been ordered to launch one more major offensive," the bishop said. "We want to soften up the Camarilla as much as possible before we go, so that they'll still be rebuilding when the next bishop shows up."

"I hope this wasn't gonna be for at least a few days," K.T. said, "because if it is, I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to help you."

"Oh, you'll have time to heal," Roi answered. "It'll be four nights from now. We'll take out the Krewe of Steele first, and then we'll tear apart the rest."

"Good luck getting the Krewe in one place," the Gangrel said.

"Oh, it's been arranged," the bishop said gleefully. "The childe of one of the Krewe-members has fallen in with a lovely anarch that seems to have some Sabbat sympathies."

"Oh really?" the Gangrel asked, amused that Roi did not seem to think this could be a trap. _Of course, maybe I shouldn't be amused at all,_ he realized, _since it's gonna be my ass out there swingin' in the breeze if it ends up to be another ambush._

"Really," Roi said. "And I know what you're thinking, wondering if this could be a trap. We were very thorough in our analysis of the situation. It's good information."

"Fine," K.T. said.

"Oh, and I brought something for you," Roi said. Vlad handed his bishop a large leather bag, and Roi pulled out a 2-liter bottle that appeared to be filled with blood. "This should help speed your way toward good health," he said. "It's a very rare and potent vintage, so enjoy." The bishop stood to leave and gave his mercenary one last look. "Make sure you get some rest, K.T. I think you're going to need it."

**III**

Johnny walked into Rick's Cabaret and immediately started scanning the crowd for Cinnamon and Spice. He found them quickly enough, dancing up on the stage closest to the VIP section. Knowing he would have a few minutes to kill, Johnny sat down at an unoccupied table and laid a hundred-dollar bill down in front of him. As he expected, it took only moments for a dancer to walk up.

"Would you like a table dance?" she asked pleasantly.

"What's your name?" Johnny asked as he looked her over with a critical eye, trying to make up his mind.

"Cherry," the girl answered.

_Well, I don't like the implants,_ he decided immediately, knowing despite the presence of a halter-top that the girl had to have had some work done. _She's cute, though..._ "Sure," he finally answered. "I just have two requests."

"What?" the girl asked with a nervous smile.

"First, get me a Stoli martini with extra olives," Johnny said. "Then, after the dance, arrange to get me into the VIP room," he added. "I've got lots of money to burn tonight, and I would hate to be limited to staying out here." She looked at him and nodded happily, revealing that she had been afraid that Johnny might have been planning to ask something more personal. "Oh, and one other thing," he added. "I'm expecting a friend to show up in a little bit." He reached into his pocket and pulled out another hundred and passed it over to her. "Could you make sure he finds me easily enough? His name's Southpaw, and he's about six feet tall with a goatee. He'll probably be all decked out in Armani."

"Sure thing," the girl said with a grin as she walked off to get Johnny his martini. A few minutes later she was leading him off to the VIP room, where she promised to give him his table dance in more comfortable surroundings. As Johnny walked past Cinnamon and Spice on the stage, he gave them a quick wink and they winked back. _Good, they'll be meeting me in a little bit,_ he knew. Until then, he decided that he would simply relax and put himself in Cherry's caring hands.

Her dancing skills seemed well developed, but she lacked the requisite personality that Johnny felt was always present in the best performers. As a result, he was more than happy to see Cinnamon and Spice show up a little sooner than he had expected.

"How you doin' tonight, Billy?" Spice asked.

"You can just call me Johnny," the Telemon said. "Seems the secret's out."

"Sorry," Cinnamon commented. "So I guess you need some info, huh?"

"Yeah," Johnny said. "I'm looking for someone, and with the way you two seem to know everything that ever goes on in this city, I figured you were the two to go to."

"I'm flattered," Spice said, "but I guess we all know each other well enough to skip all the bullshit. Who you lookin' for?"

"Her name's Erica Blackwell," Johnny said. "She has a childe along with her."

"Yeah, Kendra," Cinnamon said. "The two of them have been in here twice lately, coming in to pick up horny guys. I assume they're using them as food."

"Great," Johnny said, pleased that he had found a lead so soon in his search. "Do you know where they live?"

"No," Cinnamon continued, "but they hang around Jackson Square quite a bit. You might try looking down there."

"Thanks," Yashida commented.

"Do you know about Yoshi's plan?" Spice asked.

"Yeah," Johnny answered.

"Well, I don't know how good his sources of information are, so he might already know," Spice said, "but tell him anyway that our good friends from out of town took the bait."

"You sure?" Yashida asked, surprised that the twins had come across such sensitive information.

"Friend of a friend told us," Cinnamon added. "That's why Agnes isn't here tonight. We're leaving town before sunrise. Maybe we'll come back in a week or so."

"Probably a good idea," Johnny commented. "So I guess I'll see ya when I see ya."

"Guess so," Spice answered. "Oh, and by the way, were you expecting to meet with anyone else here tonight?"

"Yeah," Johnny said, turning to glance in the direction that Spice had been looking. He immediately saw Southpaw, who looked far less out of place in a Bourbon Street gentleman's club than he had in a Staten Island diner when the two had first met. He waved the Ventrue over even as both Cinnamon and Spice walked away. Before Southpaw reached the table, a waitress walked over briefly and got another order for a martini before Johnny shooed her away.

"Good evening, Mr. Yashida," Southpaw said when he reached the table.

"Oh, now I'm Mr. Yashida?" the Telemon asked. "You used to call me Johnny, you know. Have I done something to offend you?"

"This seems like a rather formal occasion," Southpaw commented. "You said you had evidence of who killed my sire?"

"That's right," Johnny said. The Telemon did not know who had given some of the more vital information to Fleming, but Johnny had to admit that he was impressed. The file contained pictures of the Templar, whose name apparently was Vlad. Word had it he was born the son of a general who was in service to Vlad Tepes Dracula, and it was in honor of his father's prince that Vlad the Templar had been named. As Vlad Tepes had lived during the 15th century, Vlad the Templar was obviously at least four hundred years old. He could very likely have performed the crimes of which he was now accused.

Johnny passed the file over to Southpaw and watched as the Ventrue perused the pages and photos. "This is rather extensive," Southpaw commented.

"I'm thorough," Johnny replied.

"I'm also rather surprised that you were able to come across this information," the Ventrue added. "Just how were you able to get detailed information about a Sabbat Templar?"

"That's classified," Johnny said, suddenly becoming uneasy in the face of Southpaw's suspicions. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." He had hoped that his joke would help lighten the mood, but it instantly became obvious that his hope had been in vain. "Look," Johnny said evenly, planning a feigned honest approach that might fare better, "I'm a mercenary. There are mercenaries all over, some of whom work only for the Camarilla, like the Telemon, and some who work only for the Sabbat. Some will work for anyone that pays their price. We all come across information, though, and I happened to know someone who happened to have information that fit the profile of our assassin. It makes sense that the bishop would only entrust a Templar with the kind of responsibility that these assassinations carried."

"Yeah," Southpaw agreed, "but I would have expected an Assamite."

"Nah," Johnny said. "We all hear horror stories about Assamite assassins, but the truth of the matter is that they're not the only assassins in the kindred world. There're plenty of others, too, and the Tzimisce are still known as one of the most bad-ass clans out there, despite what's happened to them at the hands of the Tremere.

"Everything I've seen leads me to believe that this guy, Vlad, is the one who did it." The Telemon simply hoped that the ink was dry enough on the pages so that Southpaw didn't smudge it as he was reading. That could make for an awkward situation. "You should make sure the prince sees that, so he can call a bloodhunt."

"I guess you'll be wanting some money now, huh?" the Ventrue asked.

"I was hoping," Johnny admitted. "I could really use an influx of new cash. Strippers and martinis cost money." Almost on cue the waitress came by with another martini, and Johnny gave her a twenty and sent her on her way.

"You keep paying for everything with twenties, and even this five million isn't going to last long," Southpaw commented, his face finally spreading into a smile.

_Good, he bought it,_ Johnny concluded. Finally relaxing completely, Yashida gave Southpaw the number to a Swiss bank account and waited while Southpaw had the money transferred. Within minutes Yashida had his money, and he walked out of Rick's Cabaret with significantly more resources than he had had in years.

**IV**

K.T. answered his cell phone on the second ring, wondering who would be calling him. He knew that Roi would stay away for a couple of more nights, so the only conclusion he could come to was Erica or Johnny.

"Hello?" K.T. asked

"Hi," Johnny's voice answered from the other end.

"What's up?" the Gangrel asked.

"I just wanted to make sure you were at home and still a little laid up," Yashida said.

"Why's that?" K.T. asked, though a moment later the answer came to him. "Is it time?"

"Yes," Johnny said evenly.

"I'm home," K.T. replied. "Just make sure you don't miss."

"Of course," Johnny said, hanging up the phone.

K.T. sat in silence for a few moments as he pondered the fact that Kendra was about to be killed. _Do I even want this anymore?_ he wondered. _So what if I have Kendra killed? Will that bring Erica back? What if she ever finds out I was behind it? It's bad enough that I let Philip mess with her memory, but could she ever forgive me for killing her childe? Have I really gone too far this time?_

Johnny sat on the top of St. Louis Cathedral, watching the small group of people that was gathered below. In the park in the middle of Jackson Square he could see Erica and Kendra sitting at the foot of the statue of President Andrew Jackson, the American general who had won a stunning victory over the British at the Battle of New Orleans. It had not mattered, of course, since the War of 1812 had been ended two weeks earlier with a peace treaty, but since communications were so poor, fighting was still taking place in New Orleans. Though the victory had no bearing on the outcome of the war, it had still made Americans feel good about themselves, as if they had actually won.

The two girls were talking about something, though Johnny had no idea what it was. _I wish I had that damned parabolic microphone,_ he thought. _They might be talking about something important._

Unable to change the situation, though, he loaded a magazine of .50 cal explosive rounds into his Barret sniper rifle. He then connected the flash suppressor, which he hoped would also muffle the noise of the shot enough for him to risk firing two or three rounds. _With all the buildings around, though, it's hard to tell how this is gonna sound._ Once the weapon was ready, he looked through the night vision scope once again, taking his time to get the shot right.

Back at his haven, K.T. still sat in confusion, wondering if he was doing the right thing. _I can't believe I've been reduced to this,_ he decided. _I know this is wrong. If it wasn't wrong, I'd have the nerve to do it myself. I wouldn't have to hire my friend to do it for me._

He took out his phone and dialed Johnny's number, hoping to call off the hit. "We're sorry, all circuits are busy," he heard over the phone. "Please hang up and try your call again."

"Goddamn cellular!" he cursed as he hurled the phone across the room. "It never works when I need it." He struggled to his feet and staggered over to the phone in his room, knowing he could still make the call from a land line. He picked up the receiver and went to dial... and then realized he could not remember the number to Johnny's cell phone.

"Damnit!" he cursed. He staggered over to his cell phone, hoping the display screen still worked. Johnny's number would still be stored in his cell phone's directory. As soon as he picked up the shattered device, though, he knew it was hopeless. "Fuck!"

_Okay, get a grip, Corben_, he thought, trying to calm himself down. _Alright, you can remember the number. Now we know the number has an '814' area code, so let's start there. 814..... _He was finding it impossible to remember any numbers with an '814' area code, and panic started to set in. _This is not happening..._

Suddenly, out of the blue, the number came to him, and he stumbled back over to the phone to try it. _Please let me be in time…_

"So where else you want to go?" Erica asked her childe, wondering what other places she would like to see. Neither woman knew that they were in the sights of a fairly experienced sniper, and that death could be rained down from above at any moment. It was the farthest thing from Erica's mind. Rather than look around at any possible threats that might be lurking in the shadows, she was concentrating on her own hands, on her nails, and the bright red polish she had put on earlier in the evening. _Kendra was right, it does look better on me than that burgundy polish I had on last night._

"Well, I'd like to see Las Vegas," Kendra said. "I've also heard San Francisco is really nice."

"San Francisco isn't exactly safe right now," Erica commented. "I hear there's been a bit of upheaval."

"Really?" Kendra asked, obviously intrigued. "What happened?"

"A bunch of kindred died during my last visit with K.T.," Erica explained. "I'm not sure about the details, though. He seemed to know a bit about what happened, but he wasn't gonna tell me anytime soon."

"He did that a lot, didn't he?" Kendra asked. "He kept stuff from you."

"Yeah," Erica agreed. "I think he was always trying to protect me."

"Like you need protecting," Kendra replied with a grin. "I've seen you, you're totally bad."

"No, I'm just tough enough to get by as long as nothing unlucky happens," Erica replied. "Thing is, in our world, something unlucky _always _happens. You can't avoid it."

"You almost sound like you still want him back," Kendra said.

"I do," Erica admitted.

"So why don't you try getting him?" Kendra asked.

"He won't have me anymore," Erica explained.

"You're sure?" Kendra asked. "I hate seeing you like this. You sure there's no way?"

"Well, there's one way," Erica said with a grimace.

_Okay, Yashida, just pull the damned trigger,_ the Telemon told himself, trying to get up the nerve to kill the young girl dominating his field of vision through the scope. _One little twitch of the finger, and you're halfway there,_ he told himself. Of course, he knew that once he had ripped the girl apart with rounds he would have to load a tracer into the rifle and finish her off. That would take a whole new round of concerted effort.

He watched the two girls again, almost smiling at the close friendship that they obviously shared. It almost reminded him of the way he and Matt had once been. _And now I'm about to end it,_ Johnny realized. He lowered the rifle for a moment and took a couple of deep breaths, though he no longer needed them to stiffen his resolve.

He raised the rifle once more to fire, and brought the girls into his sights. _Do it!_ he told himself. In the instant before he fired, though, he saw Erica's hand shoot out toward Kendra's throat. _What the fuck?_

It took the Telemon a few seconds to realize what had happened. Erica had apparently grown her hands into claws and torn into her own childe's throat. He watched in morbid fascination as Erica continued her assault. The Ventrue straddled her child and ripped into her chest, going directly for the heart. Within a few short seconds, Kendra stopped struggling, and Johnny knew the childe was dead. At the very moment of his realization, he heard the muffled noise of his cell phone's ringer. _Now what?_

"This had better be good," he said into the phone.

"Don't do it," he heard K.T. say from the other end of the line. Johnny's mind raced along at a previously unknown pace as he contemplated limitless possibilities in a matter of a half-second.

"You're too late," the Telemon replied. "It's already done." Silence came from the other end, and Johnny knew that K.T. was suddenly wracked with guilt. "Don't worry," Johnny said evenly. "I don't think she ever saw it coming." _I know I sure didn't._ "If Erica shows up at your doorstep anytime soon, don't ever bring it up. We both know she shouldn't ever find out about your plan, and you won't ever gain anything by reminding yourself of this night."

"You're right," K.T. agreed. Without another word, the Gangrel hung up at his end, and Johnny turned off his phone and floated down to the park below. Without a sound he walked up behind Erica, who was simply siting on the grass, looking at her butchered childe.

"Why?" Johnny asked simply.

Erica turned quickly, almost losing her balance in her surprise. "I-I don't know," she stuttered. Bloody tears were running down her face. "I want to go back to K.T., but he won't let me as long as Kendra is around."

_So instead of simply releasing her, you killed her?_ Johnny thought of saying. He bit his tongue, though.

"I figured if I could go and tell K.T. that I had killed Kendra, then he would realize how much I wanted to be with him, and that I'm tough enough to be a mercenary," Erica added, seeming to answer Johnny's unspoken question.

"I don't think you should ever tell K.T. what you did here tonight," Johnny said honestly. "I don't think he'd ever understand. I think part of the reason he's always been with you is your humanity. If he knows you're capable of something like that... well, things would just never be the same."

"Okay," Erica said, seeming to relent a little too quickly. "But what if he asks what happened to Kendra?"

"Tell him she was gunned down," Johnny suggested, knowing that's the answer K.T. would expect anyway. "Just don't ever bring it up. Tell him Kendra is gone, and now you want to be with him. It should all be okay."

"Okay," Erica agreed again.

"Now get out of here," Johnny said to the crying Ventrue. "I'll take care of the body. Just go to K.T. Let him take care of you."

"Okay," Erica said again as she began to walk out. Johnny wanted to call out to her, to warn her that it would probably be best if she and K.T. left the city. He could not do it, though. He knew that if K.T. got wind of the party that Yoshi was preparing for the Sabbat, the regent's plans might be foiled before they even got a chance. Besides, Johnny never truly had an opportunity to warn his friends, as Erica could not stand to look back to see Johnny take Kendra's body away.

**V**

_Be careful out there tonight,_ Johnny remembered saying to Michelle. The times were few and far between when the two of them had gotten into a really intense fight without the other there to help out. Now was one of those few times. By all accounts, Yoshi's setup had gone perfectly – he had lured the Sabbat into the Quarter, where the Krewe of Steele was gathering and would supposedly be vulnerable. It was, in fact, a trap.

_Well, now it's a trap,_ Johnny corrected. The Sabbat had found a genuine leak that had let slip the vital information that all members of the Krewe would be in one place at the same time. That made them exposed to an all-out blitz by the Sabbat. Luckily, one of Yoshi's spies had discovered the lapse in security, and the Camarilla defenders had planned accordingly. While many had supported the conservative step of moving the meeting to a secure location, Yoshi took a more aggressive approach. He wanted to bolster the meeting's defenses, to crush the Sabbat when they appeared in force. The regent's strategy was far more risky, but also carried with it the possibility of driving out the Sabbat once and for all. It appeared everything was now in place to avoid what could otherwise have been a catastrophic blow to the defense of New Orleans.

It was a Tuesday night, which meant that the French Quarter was not very busy. On top of that, it was after 3 a.m. There would be few witnesses, and those who did see anything would likely fall into one of two categories. The first were those that were very drunk, and could easily be discredited later. The second group would be made up largely of locals that were in the Quarter working. Few of them would ever say much, as they had grown used to such events. The city of New Orleans did not have a reputation for being linked to the occult and vampirism for no reason. Many natives of the city had as good an idea of the truth as mortals generally ever did.

"We're in position," Johnny heard Brett mutter through his headset.

"My people are ready," the small Telemon said to Yoshi. The two Asian vampires were joined by a cloaked and masked figure that was obviously manipulating its voice as it spoke, and was to be referred to as 'Thomas.' This was a representative of the Krewe of Steele, and as a member of the secret organization he was free to conceal his identity. These three formed the heart of the Camarilla effort, each in contact with one of the three factions involved. Johnny facilitated communication with the Telemon, Thomas kept in contact with the Krewe, and Yoshi directed the efforts of everyone else while also coordinating with each of the other two men with him.

"I suppose we're all set, then," Yoshi commented. "Are you both ready for this?" Neither of the two vampires spoke, deciding instead that a simple nod would suffice.

_Time to gel out,_ Johnny reminded himself. He had occasionally gotten overly excited before combat in the past and had found that completely relaxing every part of his body was the best way to maintain his concentration. He searched every shadow below him on Bourbon Street, hoping to find any sign of the impending attack. It was not that he was looking forward to the fight, he simply wanted to make sure that if the shooting started near him, he was not caught by surprise. Time began to drag on, and Johnny began to grow nervous. _They should have hit us by now,_ he decided at around three-thirty. _What's taking so long?_

Time continued to crawl by, and the Telemon was just starting to consider the possibility that the Sabbat would not show when Thomas turned to Yoshi quickly. "They're here," he reported, pressing his hand up to the microphone he had in his ear. Johnny guessed it was hard to hear some of the reports over the sounds of the attack.

"Where?" Yoshi asked.

"Here," Thomas said. A moment later the concealed vampire opened up with automatic fire from beneath his cloak, knocking both Johnny and Yoshi back in a hail of gunfire. Johnny tried desperately to draw his shotgun from the small of his back, but try as he might, he could not get his arms to move. _I took a hit in the spine,_ he knew. He concentrated as much as he could, flowing his vampiric vitae into his back, hoping to heal the crippling injury. Thomas seemed to recognize that Yashida had been incapacitated, and moved instead toward Yoshi, who was obviously the greater threat.

"Who are you?" Yoshi managed to ask just before he was knocked back by another salvo. His assailant pressed the attack, advancing while dropping an Uzi at his feet and producing a wakizashi from beneath the folds of his cloak.

"I am your death, Hideyoshi," the man replied. Yoshi staggered to his feet just as his attacker reached arm's length and thrust his sword into Yoshi's chest. The regent managed to sidestep just enough to avoid being staked through the heart, though his injury was still more than enough to wound him critically.

_Oh no,_ Johnny thought as he watched the scene. It was then that he heard the first shouts over his own com system. "Shit!" Mel yelled, and then a quick burst of gunfire followed.

"Brett, look out!" Michelle screamed. A grunt of pain followed from the Telemon leader. A scream that could only be described as a death wail also came through in Johnny's ears, and he almost shed a tear as he recognized Uiko's voice.

"No!" a new voice challenged, and Johnny knew that Mason had joined the fight. A series of loud cracks betrayed Mason's employment of a shotgun, and then there was a small explosion. _I have to do something,_ Johnny told himself, increasing his concentration yet again. _I have to heal myself. I have to get back into the fight._ He looked across the room and saw Yoshi lying on his back, completely prone before his executioner. _No!_ Johnny screamed silently, wishing he could do something... anything... to help Yoshi and save his clanmates.

As soon as the first shots were fired, K.T. Corben raced through the dark alley, grateful that he had managed to talk Erica into staying behind. In reality, he knew, it had not been all that difficult to do. Erica was no longer willing to work for the Sabbat in any way, shape, or form, no matter how much they were offering. It made K.T. happier than he could have imagined, and he was more than willing to say so. He finally had Erica back. Now he only needed to make certain that he kept her.

_Does that mean I have to kill Johnny?_ the Gangrel wondered. He hoped he would never have to make the decision. There were plenty of other combatants in the Quarter, and he knew any one of them might be able to kill the small Telemon. K.T. had no wish for Johnny to die, but he also knew the penalty that awaited him if he passed up his next chance to kill the Camarilla mercenary – his life would be forfeit. It seemed to be a no-win scenario.

K.T. looked behind him one last time, making certain that his people had their weapons drawn and ready to bring to bear. He was fighting alongside a fresh pack that had just arrived from Miami only a few hours earlier. The Camarilla had had no warning that the Sabbat's numbers were about to be augmented with seasoned soldiers. _And these ones are used to fighting experienced opponents,_ K.T. knew. Pre-battle reports had said that the Camarilla was planning to divide its forces into three units. The first would be the Krewe, the second was the Telemon, and the third was the gathered forces of other native kindred. It was the third group, gathered near Jackson Square, that K.T.'s group was ordered to hit.

Predictably, as the gunfire erupted from within the Quarter, the 'reserve unit,' as Roi had referred to them, began to move quickly to reinforce their comrades. They obviously did not expect to meet such heavy resistance so soon. No sooner had the dozen kindred rounded a corner than K.T. and his eight cohorts opened up with a storm of gunfire. The Camarilla soldiers were immediately either cut down or forced to dive for cover.

_Easy enough,_ K.T. thought. _Now all we have to do is finish them all off without getting ourselves killed._ "Get them!" he shouted, and the Sabbat pack leader echoed his command a moment later. They ran in with claws, knives, swords, and baseball bats, hoping to finish off their enemies quickly and efficiently before they could recover from the initial shock of the Sabbat assault.

In the back of his mind, K.T. could register that he was hearing explosions from within the Quarter, but he pushed that out of his mind and concentrated on the task at hand. Roi, his Templars, Selano's pack, and the majority of the freshly embraced shock troops were engaging the Krewe of Steele, while Chang's pack and the remainder of the shock troops took care of the Telemon. _They should do fine,_ K.T. knew. _We only have to make certain that none of these reinforcements arrive anywhere._

"NO!" Yoshi screamed as he raised his hands in front of his face, pointing his fingers at his cloaked attacker. Bright blue tendrils of electricity arced forth from his fingertips, consuming Thomas in a wide bolt of lightning. The vampire screamed in agony as smoke began to rise from beneath his cloak, and he fell to the floor, completely immobile as the flow of electricity ceased. A brief moment later Johnny was assaulted by the scent of ozone and burning flesh. Part of him wanted to gag, while another part wanted to cheer. The greatest part, however, wanted to know how in hell Yoshi had done that. The old Toreador started to fight his way into a seated position, and then Thomas began to stir once again.

"That hurt," the cloaked vampire muttered as he stood slowly, once again rising above Yoshi. While the regent had obviously bought himself a little time, Yashida doubted that it was enough. _Unless I get feeling back in my goddamned body anytime soon, that is._ Thomas kicked Yoshi in the face as he bent down to pick up his wakizashi. A quick slash across the Toreador's shoulder laid Yoshi out again, completely vulnerable.

_No, not yet,_ Johnny resolved. He abandoned his efforts to heal and instead sent his blood into his extremities and concentrated on becoming lighter. His body instantly began to float the slightest bit off the floor, and Johnny willed himself to fly directly at Thomas. The vampire was in the act of bringing his sword's edge down on Yoshi's neck when Yashida collided with him, sending him outside and over the balcony. With no feeling in his limbs, it was extremely difficult for Johnny to change his direction quickly, and he continued straight on across the street, smashing into the building across the way. A moment later he fell heavily to the ground. As soon as he hit, though, he was assaulted with the pain of several broken bones. _Oh, thank God,_ he thought immediately, grinning through the pain. _I must have knocked my spinal cord back into alignment when I hit that wall. I can feel my legs again, and it hurts... so... much._

K.T.'s unit cut into the Camarilla kindred mercilessly. Nosferatu, Brujah, Ventrue, Toreador, and Malkavians were forced back by the ferocity of the assault. _Almost too easy,_ K.T. thought, only a moment before everything started to go wrong. With the suddenness of a lightning strike, the area around K.T. and his cohorts seemed to explode almost of its own will. Repetitive sounds of thunderclaps echoed down between the huddled buildings on the edge of the French Quarter, and K.T., purely by instinct, abandoned his attack and dove for cover.

It was several seconds before his brain began to make sense of the situation. Someone with an M-60 was firing from a rooftop above them. K.T. yelled to his Sabbat allies, but most of them were suddenly very preoccupied with the single kindred that was streaking through the group, slashing at one, dodging a counterstrike as he punched another, and then dominating the will of a third to start attacking his own packmates.

_Who the fuck is that?_ K.T. wondered, knowing immediately that a fairly old kindred had suddenly joined the fray. The Gangrel knew that there was no one in his group that would last long. The gunner above had provided a distraction while this elder came in and freed up many of the Camarilla soldiers that were yet alive. The Camarilla had held a numerical advantage from the beginning, but the ferocity of the Sabbat surprise attack had negated that instantly. Now they were getting a chance to regroup, and K.T. could see immediately where the situation was heading. _They're about ten seconds from being able to counter-attack against us,_ the mercenary knew, and he decided he was not going to be anywhere nearby when his comrades were cut to pieces.

K.T. ran off down an alley, chased by the sounds of Sabbat vampires being torn limb from limb by a Camarilla force that had gained a leader it was not supposed to have had. "Total cluster fuck!" Corben shouted into his com system, hoping to warn Roi in time that his foes would likely be gaining help in the near future.

_Well, at least Yoshi should get the time he needs to heal, now,_ Johnny realized.

"Get behind me!" he suddenly heard Brett yell through his com system. Yashida's heart leaped at the thought that some of his clanmates might still be alive. _Maybe we still have a chance,_ he thought. He knew that Yoshi's faction was assigned to provide reinforcements to anyone that got in trouble.

"Johnny, come in," Yashida heard Michelle yell. "We're in deep shit, pinned down near O'Flaherty's. We need help now!" _O'Flaherty's?_ Johnny wondered. _What the hell are they doing down there?_ His clanmates were several blocks away from where they were supposed to be. He had to tell Yoshi where Brett and the others were if they were going to get help, as no one would go looking that far out of the combat zone for them.

"Stand by," Johnny replied. "We're under fire. I can't get to Yoshi."

"Get down here yourself, then," Brett shouted. "Uiko's in torpor, I think, and Mel is bleeding all over the place. All we have is me, Mason, and Michelle. We're in a world of shit."

"Stand b-" Yashida's words were cut off as bullets began to tear into him. Instinctively he rolled to his right and then forced himself to his feet as he ducked behind a doorway. "I'm pinned down," he screamed into the com. "Give me a minute."

"I don't know if we have it," Brett answered. Johnny could tell that Brett was being brutally honest, but he did not hear any fear in his commander's voice. _Well, that's good, at least,_ the Telemon decided. He risked a quick glance out into the street, and was immediately forced back once again as Thomas opened up with two pistols. Johnny searched the area around him, knowing he had to find a way to his clanmates as quickly as possible. _And I have to make sure Yoshi is still alive, too,_ he knew.

He stole as thorough a glance as he could without getting shot in the head, and found exactly what he was looking for. _Great, a shadow,_ Johnny thought. He took a deep breath to settle his nerves and then stepped into the nearest shadow he could find, hoping that what he was about to experience did not drive him mad.

"Did you say we're going to have some company?" Roi asked over the com.

"That's right," K.T. responded. "I tried to call for a retreat but your guys were a little too unwilling to respond. They seemed to think they could win, and they all got themselves torn to pieces."

"I'm disappointed," Roi replied. "I would have thought you would stay to help them."

"I would have if an unidentified elder hadn't appeared," the mercenary yelled in reply. "You never warned me about that. Any idea who he could have been?"

"It's irrelevant," Roi commented. "My people are well in control here."

"You're about to get hit by another dozen or so kindred," K.T. reminded his employer. "Unless the entire Krewe is already decimated, I think it's time to withdraw. They've taken the heavy losses you wanted to inflict."

"Go to O'Flaherty's," the bishop ordered. "Chang's pack has the Telemon pinned down. Make sure he's able to finish them off, and then meet me back at my haven. We're pulling out as soon as I see any sign of reinforcements."

"Great," K.T. muttered. _Finish off the Telemon. Of all the things..._

Johnny leapt from the shadow behind Thomas and kept completely silent as he tried to gather his wits about him. Travelling through the shadow realm was not only terrifying, it was also disorienting. After a few seconds he had regained his bearings and drew his sword from its sheath as he lunged at his cloaked enemy. Thomas whirled to face Yashida's charge at the last moment, and the ninja-to and wakizashi met in a terrible screech of metal. Thomas fell back a half step but immediately regained his footing, and then crouched as he swung his sword in a tight arc, obviously intending to cripple the Telemon by slicing up his legs. Johnny backed up a half step of his own just in time, and a moment later was covered in a spray of blood that erupted from Thomas' head.

It took Yashida a moment to realize that Yoshi had jumped from the balcony above and landed, sword-first, on top of their would-be assassin. The old Japanese kindred looked up at Johnny and smiled.

"How's your clan doing?" he asked

"They're in trouble," he replied. He then bent down and pulled the microphone from the ear of the left half of the skull lying in the street. He grimaced as he placed the bloody device in his free ear, and was certain that he paled as he heard the report.

"We're in trouble, we're in trouble," someone called from the other end. "Why won't anyone answer? Where are you?"

"Contact your reserves," Johnny said. "Have them support the Krewe, now."

"You sure?" Yoshi asked.

"Now!" Johnny answered. It broke his heart to send reinforcements to aid anyone other than his endangered clanmates, but he knew the reality of the situation. New Orleans needed the Krewe of Steele if it would fend off this, or any other, siege. The tactical necessity lay with helping the Krewe first. His own clan was expendable. "See ya," he added a moment later.

"Where are you going?" Yoshi asked.

"My clan's in serious trouble, too," Johnny answered. "If nothing else, I have to make sure I die with them."

"Then wait for me," Yoshi called out behind him. "You're going to need help."

K.T. ran down Chartres at a thoroughly mortal pace, hoping to get to the firefight soon enough to avoid any suspicion from Roi or Philip, but late enough so that he would not be faced with having to kill his friend. He could hear the gunshots coming from O'Flaherty's and knew in his heart that he would be unable to avoid the confrontation that Philip had seemed so intent in bringing about. _Why?_ K.T. wondered. The Telemon did not seem to be much of a threat. There was no sense in targeting specific members of the clan. His train of thought was interrupted, however, as he suddenly had to evade a group of people running in the opposite direction, fleeing in absolute terror. _Well, so much for the Masquerade. I wonder where the cops are._ Almost on cue, he heard several sirens and the shouts of what he figured were police officers. _Stands to reason they'd get here quickly. After all, their damned French Quarter stationhouse is two blocks away. Maybe if the fat fucks cut back on the beignets..._

The Gangrel decided to quicken his pace significantly and sent his blood into his extremities, allowing him to move at supernatural speed. A brief moment later he almost ran headlong into Johnny Yashida, who was able to evade the mercenary at the last second. _Oh fuck!_

"Go ahead," Johnny directed to the other Japanese kindred that was with him. _That's probably the new regent, Yoshi,_ K.T. concluded. "I'll take care of this one." Yoshi nodded and continued his sprint toward O'Flaherty's as K.T. leaned back into a fighting stance.

"We don't have to do this, K.T.," Johnny said, moving slowly toward a side street. He did not seem to be making a move to run so much as simply moving out of direct view, so K.T. allowed Yashida to continue to move slowly. _We probably don't want to do this in front of the mortals, anyway._

"I was ordered to eliminate the Telemon before I returned to headquarters," K.T. growled. "I think that means my orders specifically cover you."

"And what about our discussion at Fat Harry's?" Johnny asked.

"Don't push it," the Gangrel said. He grew his hands into claws and lunged at the Telemon, hoping to kill him quickly. After all the two had done together, a quick death seemed to be the least K.T. could offer. Johnny reacted more quickly than K.T. had ever seen, drawing his sword seemingly from nowhere and parrying K.T.'s fist with the hilt. A quick flurry of kicks set the Gangrel back on his heels, and Johnny then began to follow his kicks with cuts that swung in with deadly precision. Only decades of experience in combat allowed K.T. to escape with his hide intact. As it was, his shirt hung in tatters and his chest was bleeding slightly from several paper-thin wounds.

_I had no idea he was so fast_, K.T. thought, realizing for the first time that Johnny had been holding back in their first fight. _He's still obviously not as strong as me, though._ It was easy for K.T. to realize that although it might be harder for him to score a hit upon his far faster foe, any wounds he inflicted would be far more serious than anything Yashida would be able to mete out in return.

The Telemon continued to press the attack, and K.T. continued the martial arts dance with an expert series of parries and counterstrikes. Seconds passed, and neither fighter was able to gain an advantage. "Seriously, K.T., just leave," Johnny offered again. K.T. could see growing panic in his adversary's face and could easily guess the reason – the gunfire that had punctuated the beginning of their fight had stopped abruptly. It seemed the gunfight at O'Flaherty's had been decided, one way or the other. Johnny obviously wanted to find out if he still had a clan to run with.

"I can't let you go, Johnny," K.T. replied. "Either I kill you, or you kill me. It doesn't seem there's any other way out of this." _Unless you come up with another one of your half-ass schemes,_ the mercenary added silently, hoping that Yashida would be able to come up with some kind of desperate plan. He could tell, however, that nothing was springing to Johnny's mind. The Telemon's only response was to tighten the defensive arcs of his swings, making it obvious that he was buckling down to make certain he did not get himself killed.

_There are too many cops around here,_ K.T. noticed. _I have to finish this soon_. He gauged the speed of Johnny's attacks and suddenly lunged at his foe. The slight twitch in Johnny's eye when K.T. began to move was the only sign that K.T. had erred in moving too soon. Rather than grab a hold of the Telemon, as he had planned, he simply had his claws rake through empty air as he saw, from the corner of his eye, Johnny roll off to his right. K.T. began to whirl to meet Yashida's angle, but had his right leg buckle underneath him as the Telemon sliced the Gangrel's hamstring. Pain erupted through the entire right side of K.T.'s body, but he fought through it and focused on Johnny... only to find that he had apparently disappeared.

_Goddamnit Yashida,_ the Gangrel cursed. _He's gonna leave me here for the cops. I'm get arrested and probably arraigned at noon._ He struggled to stand, and suddenly felt something grab him firmly by the back of his collar. A moment later, K.T. was flying up into the air, being carried away from the police net that was slowly closing in on the stragglers from the vampire battle that had raged in the French Quarter. K.T. managed to look up enough to see Yashida, who was flying just above the rooftops, carrying his friend away from the police pursuit. After a short flight, Johnny touched down on a small building and looked over his friend.

"Didn't want to end up getting arrested," he explained. "I can't believe you fell for that."

"I can't believe you fell for this," K.T. replied. Johnny's eyes narrowed in question to K.T.'s statement, and the Gangrel's only explanation was to thrust his hand into Johnny's stomach. K.T. grabbed the first organ he got his hands on, and began to twist. The Telemon let out a cry of agony and immediately collapsed to his knees. He looked at the Gangrel with an almost completely vacant expression, and K.T. knew he had his foe hovering on death's door.

_No,_ K.T. suddenly decided. He looked at Johnny's face and remembered Michelle, and Michelle reminded him of Erica. She had come so far, and brought K.T. so far in his own right. He was really no longer the heartless mercenary that he had been. He had changed, though for better or worse he could not tell. All he knew was that, with Erica back in his life, he would never allow himself to go back to the way he had been.

He knew he could dispose of Johnny at will, but refused to do it. _I won't kill him. He's my friend, and a fellow professional. I know what this will cost me, but it's better to die with some semblance of honor than to live as the animal that Philip wants me to be._ "Pull yourself together and get the hell out of here," K.T. advised his friend. "Just do me a favor, Johnny," he added, knowing full well that while Yashida could probably understand him, it was unlikely that he would give any response. "Letting you live is gonna cost me big, and I don't think I'll be seeing you ever again. If I happen to disappear, will you take care of Erica for me, at least for awhile?" Johnny nodded slightly in response. "Thanks," K.T. said. "Just make sure she'll be ready to take care of herself before you let her go. She's still pretty vulnerable." He then turned, and without another thought or word K.T. simply walked away.

_To be continued……………………………………_


	9. Le Bon Temps Roule, Epilogue

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

**-----------------------------------------------------------**

**Epilogue**

"I can't believe I was so very wrong about our young Mr. Corben," Philip said evenly as he continued to pace back and forth across the luxuriously spacious hotel suite. "I thought for sure he would finally come around and kill Yashida. He had the chance; he had him at his mercy... but he chose to leave. It's preposterous. Doesn't he know I'll have to kill him for this?"

"Truly, Philip," Hassan commented, "perhaps the whelp hasn't gotten that far in thinking it all through. After all, it was not for his mind that you brought him into the Hand."

"Oh, you must be loving this," Philip answered. "I'm surprised you're not gloating. Go ahead, remind me of the many times you told me bringing in Mr. Corben was a mistake."

"Perhaps I will discuss Mr. Corben with you at a later time," Hassan said, something in his voice making Philip slightly uneasy. For the first time in decades, the Gangrel was reminded that while Hassan often served as his bodyguard and personal assassin, he was of the same rank within their organization.

_What is he thinking?_ the Gangrel wondered. _Does he plan on bringing this up with our superiors? Does he think this isolated failure could discredit me somehow? Is there an enemy I have that would try to make more of this than it really is?_

Both kindred stood in silence for several minutes, each one watching the other for the slightest hint of anything... thought, emotion, restlessness. Philip saw no trace of anything reflected on Hassan's face, while he remained intent on not betraying anything in turn to his old 'friend.'

"Of course, K.T. has to die," Philip finally said. "I cannot allow him to live after I gave him an ultimatum. He would never respect my authority again." He looked over his Assamite comrade for a minute while pondering K.T. a little more. _The mercenary had shown so much promise... It would be a waste to simply destroy him._ "I guess you finally have a chance to kill K.T.," Philip finally said. "But give him one more chance."

"One more chance?" Hassan asked dubiously. "Are you sure that's appropriate? He did, after all, defy you as thoroughly as he could. Such insubordination should be dealt with accordingly."

"He gets one more chance," Philip said evenly, making certain his voice did not allow for the possibility of opening his decision up to debate. "Let him have one final opportunity to kill Yashida and Marlowe. If he takes advantage of the offer, then he will live. If not..."

"And if he uses this as an opportunity to run?"

"Then you will have to chase him down," Philip replied, bringing a tired sigh from his associate. "If I remember correctly, you're the one that once said the thrill of the chase makes the job that much more satisfying."

"Once upon a time that was true," Hassan replied darkly, "but now I simply want to get this over with. I wish to conduct my business with Mr. Corben and be done with this entire situation." He stood and walked over to the closet, taking out his scimitar and strapping it at his side. "I hope that next time you take more care in selecting a recruit. I don't want to have you make the same mistake again."

"Oh, I've already chosen a new recruit," Philip replied with a devilish grin. "This one promises to be far more clever than K.T. ever was. Hassan shook his head in apparent frustration and walked out the door, leaving Philip to his own machinations. Once the Assamite was gone, Philip took his cell phone from a pocket and dialed.

"Yes, this is Phillip," he said as soon as his call had been answered. "I need a scout assigned to observe an individual for possible initiation."

"You're beginning a period of observation?" the voice on the other end of the line asked, making certain it understood its instructions correctly.

"That's correct," Philip replied. "The individual's name is Johnny Yashida, of the Clan Telemon."

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"Your clan did an excellent job here, Johnny," Yoshi commented as walked around the grounds of the home that Yoshi was borrowing from an influential local Toreador. "The primogen of the city have decided to give your people a one million dollar bonus."

"We don't appreciate gifts," Yashida replied. "We did a job, and we were paid accordingly. We don't want to leave here feeling we owe you anything."

"Sheridan insisted, though I think it was Fleming that was actually behind the decision," the Toreador said. "The prince is already hard at work now that he has officially retaken his title. I think he knows that the Camarilla's hold on the city is a bit tenuous at present, what with the heavy losses that the Krewe of Steele took. It will be at least a decade before New Orleans is as well defended as it was before this all started, and the Sabbat considered it a prime target for siege even then. We may have use for you here again in the near future. I believe Fleming wants to make sure you'll be willing to come back when he asks."

"Well, I think we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Johnny said. "He stopped dead in his tracks and turned suddenly to the old Toreador, extending his hand affably. "It was nice working with you, Hideyoshi. I hope we get a chance to do it again."

"I would like that," the older kindred answered. "I do have a question for you, though."

"Oh really?" Johnny asked.

"Yes," Yoshi answered. "During our fight with the Sabbat spy that infiltrated the Krewe of Steele, I saw you fly, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Johnny replied evenly.

"Where did you learn that?"

"I taught myself," the Telemon said simply. "Now, I could, of course, explain more, but that would mean I'd want to hear about that whole thing with the lightening bolts coming from your fingertips."

"Of course," Yoshi answered with a knowing grin. "That also is a unique discipline, something I came up with on my own. I'd be happy to share a bit about that, if you tell me about flight. Occasionally I've heard rumors of other disciplines that have been developed, but you are the first one I've ever heard of that did it so young. I practiced diligently for over fifty years before I met with any success. You're hardly that old even when one counts your mortal years."

"I know," Yashida answered with a mischievous smile. He looked over the old Toreador, and decided he could trust him with some of the details. _After all, it's not like I'll be talking about Obtenebration of anything._ "Well, when I was younger, I went and saw a movie called 'The Lost Boys.' Not a particularly accurate movie when it comes to the depiction of vampirism, but it was entertaining nonetheless."

"Yes, I've seen it," Yoshi commented.

"Well, then you know that the vampires in it could fly," Johnny responded. "That got me to thinking. I asked around to see if anyone I knew had ever heard of flying vampires, but my meager sources of information had not. So I started thinking about it, and figured that at some point, someone had to have come up with the disciplines we have now. It's like with the Tremere, refining the practice of Thaumaturgy almost to a science."

"Thaumaturgy existed, at least to some degree, even before the Tremere," Yoshi pointed out.

"Right, but the Tremere sorta worked out the kinks," Yashida said. "They made it into the collection of disciplines that it is in its modern form. A thousand years ago, Thaumaturgy as it is now didn't exist. So I figured that the blood that keeps us alive has incredible properties, and what we can do with it is limited only to our own imaginations. So I started meditating regularly, trying to figure out a way to use the vitae to allow me to fly."

"And how long did it take?" Yoshi asked.

"Years and years," Johnny answered. "Nothing ever seemed to happen, but then one night I was robbing an apartment when the owner came home. I figured 'no big deal,' but then the guy turned into a werewolf."

"Of all the luck..." the Toreador commiserated.

"Exactly," Johnny said. "So I did the only rational thing there was to do – I jumped out of the seventh story window. I knew that I would survive the fall, and that any pain associated with the landing would be nothing compared to what a territorial garou would do to me in his own apartment. Anyway, I jumped out and actually glided down to the ground. I really couldn't believe it. It was like the power actually activated itself of its own accord or something. I can't really explain it – it's almost like there was someone else in my mind at the time, and that other person showed me how to use the power in the heat of the moment."

"That's odd," Yoshi commented.

"Tell me about it," Johnny agreed, "but I wasn't really in a mood to question the situation. I practiced a lot after that, taking time whenever I had a chance, but I could never get it to work again. I got a slew of bruises and broken bones, and all apparently for nothing. Then I was visiting my sire again when I finally got up the nerve to try again from the same rooftop I had jumped from when I had my one success. It actually worked again, but this time I was concentrating more on what was going on in my head when I started to glide. The same thing happened – it was almost like there was a voice in my head, instructing me on what to do. I think it was my survival instinct or something, because the way I used the blood was almost completely instinctual. It was sorta weird, but fantastic. Ever since then I've been able to glide at will.

"A few more years of practice followed, and eventually I levitated for the first time. A few years after that I was able to fly. It's not as fun as it might seem, though. I mean, you have to remember that it's dark out when I start flying. I'm always bumping into shit, from street lamps, to branches, to flagpoles, and anything else that gets in the way. Nightvision is dangerous to use, though, because if I look at some guy's headlight or something, I'll be really blind for a few seconds, and I could run headfirst into a building if that happened. I'm trying to figure out a way to improve the power, to give it an element of echolocation or something, like a bat. It would sure make the whole flying thing a lot safer."

"I'm sure it would." Yoshi agreed. "I'm impressed by how quickly you learned to manipulate your blood to produce a new effect," he commented. "Like I said, it was fifty years before I had my first success, and that was a fairly simple thing. At first, all I could do was produce a simple static discharge that appears similar to St. Elmo's fire. I believe you noticed me using that during my duel with Kingman." Johnny nodded as he remembered the glowing, almost fiery-looking sword. _It turns out there was no magic at all, just an unheard of discipline._ "It was over a hundred before I was actually made something useful of the power, and learned to project the lightning bolts you saw in our confrontation with the traitor."

"That's amazing, though," Johnny said.

"You and I had a conversation some time ago," Yoshi said, "where I offered you secret information in exchange for the knowledge of Obtenebration. It was my new discipline of electricity that I was speaking of. I'll give it to you in exchange for your power of flight, though."

"That's certainly a tempting offer," Johnny admitted. He could just imagine how much of an advantage he would have by keeping such a deadly and unknown power like that as an ace up his sleeve. "I'd be crazy to pass that up."

"So are you agreeing?" Yoshi asked.

"Yes, I'm agreeing," Johnny stated. "Although I think you're a little hung up on this flying thing. You've probably seen 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon' a few too many times." Yoshi only grinned in response.

"Oh, I almost forgot," the old Toreador suddenly said, "I have a gift for you."

"What did I say about my people not liking gifts?" Johnny asked.

"This is a gift for you personally, and not a gift for you as a mercenary," Yoshi said. "It is something that I give you as a small token of appreciation for you saving my life."

"You don't need to thank me for that," Johnny said. "I have to admit that it was a bit of a self-serving decision. We needed you to coordinate the attack. If you had been killed, we would have lost, and a great deal of my people would likely have died."

"So it was the tactically sound decision," Yoshi said with a smile. Johnny nodded with a grin of his own. "True," the Toreador agreed, "but you could have run. You didn't. You stayed and showed more mettle than most kindred your age would have. So therefore I have a gift." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring that Johnny instantly recognized as platinum. The insignia on the ring was simple, a Greek hoplite shield overlaid with a picture of a rearing stallion. Johnny was impressed at the intricacy of the workmanship and concluded that one would have had to be a master for centuries to create such a work of art. Obviously, only an experienced kindred jeweler could have crafted it. A quick examination of the inside of the band revealed an insignia that looked slightly like the archway before a Buddhist temple, with two spears supporting a katana that formed the top of the arch. "Wear this, and you will be recognized as being one of us," Yoshi said with a smile.

"One of _us_?" Johnny asked warily.

"There is a certain group, mostly Inconnu but not entirely," Yoshi explained, referring to the sect of vampires that had officially withdrawn from the Jyhad of the younger members of their world. "Let me simply say that I am not the only kindred out there who was once a great general in his mortal days. There are many others, of many clans, but we have formed our own private society, so to speak, using our martial talents as a link that is, perhaps, greater than the blood that now makes us immortal. The ring is a symbol of us, and the inscription on the inside of the band will show any one of us that you got the ring from me. As I said before, your clan will one day need to make war against a powerful foe in order to carve out a niche for yourselves. I've just given you a way to get advice from some of the greatest generals that human society has ever produced."

Johnny just stood there in stunned silence, not even knowing how to respond to such a wonderful gift. "I don't deserve this," the Telemon finally said. "I'm no great general... I'm not even a so-so general. In my mortal days I was nothing that even resembled a general. Hell, I couldn't even win a game of Battleship or checkers. If you're serious about letting me into your little club, I just want to warn you that making me a member is probably gonna get you kicked out."

"Not at all," Yoshi answered. "Under fire you made the correct tactical decision to support the Krewe rather than your own people."

"That's not a big deal," Johnny argued. "You really should save an honor like this for people who have the proper training. All I have is the blood of a militaristic clan."

"As you say, you have no training," Yoshi agreed. "In spite of that, you formulated a strategy that made maximum effectiveness of a small, inexperienced force during this siege. In battle you made correct tactical uses of your forces. You were not a soldier as a mortal, but there are a couple of us that never had an opportunity to see warfare until the embrace. You're obviously one of that small number. I see potential in you, Yashida. I want to make you a friend and ally before anyone else has a chance to recruit you."

"I'm flattered," Johnny admitted. "Make sure you keep in touch," was the only other thing he could really think to say.

"Oh, I'm not leaving the city quite yet," Yoshi said. "I heard you and most of your people would be staying for Mardi Gras." Johnny nodded. "Then I think I'll stay, too. Maybe now is a great time for us to start learning our new disciplines from each other."

"You know, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship," Johnny said, spreading his lips into a wide, satisfied smile.

-------------------------------------------------

K.T. Corben sat on a wrought iron bench overlooking the Mississippi River, just a few steps from the New Orleans Aquarium. For the first time in many years, he allowed his mind to simply wander, and he found the sensation more relaxing than he remembered. _It's been so long since I just took the time to think,_ he pondered.

He had struggled long with the question of whether or not he would kill his friend, but he had found that the ultimate decision, made within the heat of the moment, had come quite suddenly and surprisingly easily. It almost made his brooding seem inappropriate. Almost.

_I can't believe the Mississippi River is going to be the last thing I see,_ he thought. _I'll bet it was absolutely beautiful a few hundred years ago. Too bad it's gotten so polluted. I would have liked to get to see something more impressive before I died._

"Hello K.T.," a voice said out of thin air. The Gangrel drew his gun as he slipped off his seat and fell into a defensive crouch, scanning the area for whoever it was that was speaking to him.

"Who's there?" he challenged. There was no answer. A strong breeze cut through the air above his head, and a brief moment later K.T. felt his ponytail hit the ground, having been cut cleanly from his head. _Well, I guess this is it,_ the Gangrel decided. He had hoped to have at least a few more minutes, just to relax and be at peace, but it appeared that he would not have that luxury.

"The next cut will not take your hair, mercenary," the voice said smoothly with a heavy Arabic accent. "Even now you keep up the fight?"

It had been awhile since K.T. had heard the voice, but the fact that it sounded familiar led him quickly to the identity of his attacker. "Hassan?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Mr. Corben," the Assamite replied evenly. "Throw down your weapon. Now. I would speak with you."

"I thought you were here to kill me," K.T. answered. "Why not just get it over with?" K.T. had tried very hard to prepare for this moment. He had thought convincing himself that he should at least have the dignity to meet his punishment rather than run had been enough to get himself to accept his fate, but now he doubted it. He still thought about resisting, no matter how futile the gesture might be.

"Why are you in such a hurry to die?" Hassan asked. "One might think you had grown tired of living."

"I am tired of it," K.T. replied. "I'm tired of you and Philip yanking my chain all the goddamned time. I'm tired of these little tests. I'm tired of being your hired muscle. I know there's no way out of the Hand other than death, so you might as well do it."

"Throw down your weapon, Mr. Corben, I would speak with you," Hassan repeated. This time K.T. complied, and then he sat back on the wrought iron bench. A moment later the Assamite appeared before him, scimitar in hand. "Philip is rather displeased with you," Hassan said. "He has sent me to kill you."

"So big bad Philip didn't like that I chose to disregard his demands?" K.T. asked.

"You were hired to help the Sabbat win the city," the Assamite explained. "For some strange reason, though, you refused to kill Johnny Yashida or Michelle Marlowe, despite their positions as hired defenders of New Orleans. That appears to be a rather serious breach of your assigned duties, even before considering the fact that Philip specifically told you he wanted them killed."

"So Philip wants me dead, now," K.T. concluded. "Fine."

"There is one chance for you to walk away from here, K.T." Hassan said emotionlessly, appearing uninterested in whether or not K.T. accepted the opportunity.

"And what's that?" the Gangrel asked, already suspecting what the answer would be.

"If you go out and kill Yashida and Marlowe, you will be allowed to live. Philip has invested a great deal of time and energy in you. He wants you to have one more chance. If you do as he commands, your earlier... reluctance... will be forgotten."

"They've probably left the city by now," K.T. said. "I'd never be able to get the job done quickly enough to satisfy Philip."

"Probably not," Hassan agreed. A wicked smile crossed the assassin's face, and K.T. suddenly had the impression that there was something going on of which he was not aware. "Lucky for you, Mr. Corben, that both Yashida and Marlowe have stayed behind to enjoy Mardi Gras."

"They're still in the city?" K.T. asked in disbelief. Hassan simply nodded in response. K.T. sat in silence for a few moments, avoiding eye contact with the Assamite. Finally he looked up, once again locking his gaze with his executioner. "I won't do it," K.T. said sternly. "You want Johnny and Michelle dead, you'll have to do it yourself."

"I could do it rather easily," Hassan commented, "but I would much rather you take the trouble. They're hardly worth my talents."

"No," K.T. replied, crossing his arms over his chest to emphasize his point. The Gangrel had finally had enough of being toyed with. He would rather die than be a pawn any longer.

"Why will you not kill them?" Hassan asked curiously.

"Because you want me to," K.T. said venomously. "I think that's reason enough."

"Hardly," Hassan commented. "There must be some other reason."

"None that concerns you," K.T. spat. "Come on, kill me already. I'm getting bored."

"Why will you not kill Yashida and Marlowe, K.T.?" Hassan asked again. "Tell me truly."

"Because it goes against my code," K.T. shouted. "Is that okay with you?"

"You are a mercenary," Hassan snarled. "You have no code, no conscience, no friends, and no honor. Don't speak to me as if you suddenly feel you are above the work you do."

"I _was_ a true mercenary," K.T. admitted. "Then I woke up. I found… something. I won't call it honor, but it's at least akin enough to it that I mistake the two for each other, and it appears it's going to get me killed. I guess I should have expected that. I won't betray my code, though. For the first time in decades I can look myself in the mirror and not be appalled by what I see. If I'm to die, so be it, but I won't abandon the one thing that's given me true inner peace."

"Philip has decreed that you are to die," Hassan said once again.

"You already told me that part," K.T. responded grimly. "So let's just get this over with."

"Philip has said you are to die, but I disagree," Hassan said. K.T.'s jaw almost hit the ground when he heard the words, and he looked at the Assamite suspiciously, wondering if this was some perverse ruse aimed at getting his hopes up about living, only to kill him painfully in the end.

"You disagree?" K.T. asked warily. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means that you do not need to die," Hassan stated. "In fact, the choice is up to you. You said that you are tired of being a pawn. If that is so, let me give you a choice. You can either be destroyed, or you can become a knight."

"A knight?" K.T. asked, suddenly becoming more confused than ever.

"A knight," Hassan repeated. "You would still be a game piece on someone's chessboard, but you would certainly be a more important piece. A more deadly piece. You would no longer work for Philip. You would instead belong to me."

"What?" K.T. asked incredulously. "Why?"

"I feel I have explained the what thoroughly enough, Mr. Corben," Hassan said. "As for the why, you have proven yourself to me. You are the brute force that Philip always looks for in recruits, but you were missing the requisite lack of honor and conscience that he always seeks. However, that same honor is what attracts me to you. By choosing to die rather than betray your friends, you have proven yourself worthy."

"Is this the part where I should be flattered?" K.T. asked sarcastically. He had decided that Hassan was indeed playing at some game, and that the assassin had absolutely no intention of allowing him to live. K.T. would be damned if he would play along.

"I am quite serious in my offer, Mr. Corben," Hassan said, a thin smile crossing his face. "I can see that you do not believe me, though. Stand up and make a decision. Would you like to serve as my apprentice, or would you rather die?"

"Given the choice, I think I'd rather be your apprentice," K.T. said carefully. "But what would you be sending me to do? How would it be different than working for Philip?"

"Initially, you will enjoy far more freedom by working for me," Hassan replied. "I need you to be as tough as possible, and one gets tough by constantly testing one's mettle. You will continue to wage war on behalf of various employers. Sometimes you will fight for whom I say, and sometimes you will be free to choose your superiors."

"You said that was initially," K.T. pointed out. "What about later?"

"None of that is important unless you survive your apprenticeship, Mr. Corben," Hassan answered, his thin smile fading away into a dark scowl. "When you are not fighting, you will receive training from me. I will make you deadlier than any young vampire from the New World has any right to be. If you survive, well, then you will be introduced to those who command me."

"And who exactly are they?" K.T. asked.

"If you are a knight on the chessboard, and I am a rook, then you will be meeting the kings and queens," Hassan answered, his smile returning once again, revealing how pleased he was to leave K.T. as confused as possible.

"Well, given all that, I guess you have yourself a new apprentice," K.T. finally said. The cool exterior he wore for Hassan's benefit belied the sick feeling he had deep down, where his stomach was turning. "What would you have me do first?"

"First, you will leave New Orleans," Hassan instructed. "I guess that means you should gather up Ms. Blackwell and get going as soon as possible."

"Where to?" K.T. asked.

"Chicago is nice this time of year," Hassan said.

"It's the first week of March," K.T. replied. "The wind's gonna be whipping off the lake, making Chicago cold and miserable. It's pretty much the opposite of nice there this time of year."

"Well then that's too bad for you, Mr. Corben, since Chicago is where you'll be going."

"And what am I supposed to do there?" K.T. asked.

"Whatever you want, K.T.," Hassan answered. "Take a vacation if you'd like. You've certainly earned enough money here to enjoy yourself. Or work if you prefer. Just make sure you don't get lost, because there will be some unpleasantness if I am unable to find you when you're needed."

"I understand," K.T. said. He picked up his revolver and placed it back in its holster, amazed at the feeling he had. _Do anything I want? I've been Philip's toady for so long I hardly know what I want to do now that I have the chance._

As K.T. stood and left, Hassan let out a long sigh. "I can't wait to tell Philip that I've taken over the instruction of his old protégé," he mumbled. "I think the memory of the look on his face alone will be enough to keep me entertained for the next hundred years."

-------------------------------------------------

"Well, I guess that's everything," Brett said evenly as he finished checking over his bags. "You did a great job here, Johnny. Siras is going to be proud."

"Not as proud as he's going to be of your performance," Yashida countered. "I had my doubts when you got here, Brett, but I have to admit that you've come very far, very fast. I was hoping that you would one day make a worthy replacement of the field general we lost when Matt was killed."

"It would be a great honor to one day be compared favorably to him," Brett responded.

"You're well on your way," Johnny said. "You'll probably be seeing action again very soon."

"And you probably won't be," Brett admitted. "I know opposing sieges isn't your role, so I'm grateful for your help."

"Well, if you ever find you need better intelligence in the field, give me a call," Johnny said evenly. "I'll be more than happy to work with you again."

"Are you saying you'll be my wingman?" Bret asked, making a joke in reference to 'Top Gun.'

"No, you can be mine," Yashida replied with a smile, hoping silently that this flash of levity was not something Brett would continue once he returned to headquarters. Siras had sent Brett to Johnny in order to get him some much-needed field experience and to train him to lead. Yashida was certain his sire had not also wanted Brett to pick up some of Johnny's overly glib and oftentimes inappropriate humor.

"So you're sure you're fine with staying here?" Brett asked one more time.

"Absolutely," Johnny said. "Siras granted us a two week furlough to enjoy Mardi Gras, and that's what we're going to do. Besides, I might look fine enough, but I still have a bit of a wound in my gut. It's gonna be a few days before I'm really well enough to take a chance on traveling."

"Understood," Brett said. "Well, tell everyone, even Michelle, that I was impressed with their performance. You've got a great crew here, Johnny. Make sure you take care of them."

"And you take care of yourself," Johnny said with a warm smile. _Yep, he certainly has come a long way. Losing Matt was a big blow to the clan, but Brett might be able to minimize that loss. I think we're gonna be just fine._ "Well, enough of all this warm and fuzzy shit, sir," Johnny said, snapping a quick salute toward his commander. "Good luck, sir."

"You too," Brett replied with a salute of his own.

-------------------------------------------------

"I don't want to take some time away," Erica said for the umpteenth time in the conversation. "We've been apart for weeks, K.T. I came back so I could be with you, not so you could send me away again."

"I'm not sending you away," K.T. replied. "I want to be with you again more than you could ever know," he said, wondering even as he said the words whether it was really him speaking. It seemed so odd to be saying anything warm and emotional. He had spent so many years forming walls of impenetrable stone around his heart that it felt completely alien to speak of his feelings. "I simply need a couple of months to make sure my head is screwed on straight," he explained. "Just give me a little time, and we'll be together again."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Erica asked. She looked awkward, as if she was unsure whether she should add anything. "I don't want to be alone anymore," she finally admitted.

"You don't have to be," K.T. replied. "You know Johnny and Michelle, right?"

"Of course," Erica replied.

"They're both staying for Mardi Gras. I mentioned to Johnny that you needed some people to crash with, and he was more than willing to take you on," the Gangrel said. He stolidly ignored the uneasy feeling that grew in his stomach as he considered the thought of sending someone like Erica to spend Mardi Gras with Johnny and Michelle. It seemed like he was just asking for trouble.

"Mardi Gras?" Erica asked. The sudden glimmer in her eye only made K.T.'s uneasiness grow as he started to think about all the things that could possibly go wrong. "Then what?"

"I'm not entirely sure," K.T. said. "They also said they might head over to Florida for Spring Break and some training. Johnny said you're welcome to stay with him for as long as you want."

"Really?" Erica asked.

"Well, sorta," K.T. replied with a smile. "He made me promise that I would definitely come and get you at some point. Either that, or by July 1st I'm supposed to start paying him just as I would any other babysitter."

"Oh, that's it," Erica growled with feigned anger. She lunged at the Gangrel and grabbed him in a tight embrace as the two tumbled to the floor and locked together in a passionate kiss.

-------------------------------------------------

"So we really have lots of time off?" Mel asked.

"Yup," Johnny confirmed. "We get a few weeks of vacation, and then it's time to start training again."

"For the next siege?" the fledgling asked.

"My team doesn't usually do sieges," Johnny replied. "We're more of a diplomatic unit. We were only here to help Brett get some experience. If things had started to get much worse here in New Orleans, Brett would have remained and gotten some serious reinforcements while the rest of us got reassigned."

"Oh," Mel replied.

"So what exactly do you have in mind?" Michelle asked.

"Well, Mardi Gras is less than a week away," Johnny said. "The city is about twelve hours from going absolutely nuts. I think we should have a party."

"Here?" Michelle asked.

"Well, I'm gonna need at least one more night to heal," Johnny said. "Besides, we can't go anywhere before our last guest shows up."

"Who?" Michelle asked suspiciously, counting off everyone in the room. She obviously could not figure out who else would be showing up.

At that moment, a knock came from the door, and Mason answered it. When he opened the door, Michelle's eyes settled on Erica. "Great, another attractive female kindred," the Gangrel muttered. "I don't believe this..."

Fin

**Author's Note:** Well, that's it. I plan on never again writing a serious story in this genre, so I want to thank everyone that has ever read my stuff. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Well, not that I really enjoyed writing it. This endeavor has taken me longer than a year, and has all but sucked the life out of me at times. So, I hope you at least take a couple of moments to write a short review. What did you think? What worked? What could have been better? Let me know, so I can try to make my future stuff even better. Ciao.


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